Off The Cuff: Where will the baby's dimple be?

The stork is hovering over the Thomas household in Coimbatore, India. A rapturous Mrs. Thomas, on being told this by her gynaecologist, took a rather bumpy autorickshaw ride home and informed her husband, who nearly passed out in alarm. Not at the news that he was to become a father, but at the risks an auto ride at this stage involved.

By evening, the news had spread down the length of Kamaraj Lane, and the wisdom of womenfolk came calling. "You are so lucky," said Mrs. Chockalingam, "I took two years to conceive and you won't believe the pressure I faced from Ashok's parents. That's why I think my Arvind is so bad-tempered, he was forced into being born." "I heard the good news," said Mrs. Kesavan, "from now on use plenty of haldi [turmeric] in your cooking, the baby's skin will be fair and lovely."

"Make your husband take you out for walks every day," said Mrs. Devadasan. "Yes, walking is very good," said Mrs. Naidu, "but ensure it's done after sunset, better still at night when people don't see you. That way you avoid the evil eye." "That is very true," said Mrs. Chockalingam, "and as soon as the baby is born, use your kohl pencil to put a black dot on his cheek." "Exactly what we did for our son," said Mrs. Ramarao, "for eight years, although we only put the dot on his face for the first two years, after that we hid it somewhere others couldn't see. But it protected our Kannan."

"I think your son will be pretty like you, with your dimples, and brainy like your husband," said Mrs. Kamala, rather shyly. Fortunately, none of them had heard of Bernard Shaw's witticism vis-à-vis his marriage with Cleopatra and the offspring they might accidently produce.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Mr. Thomas was asked what sort of a child he would want, boy or girl, keeping dowry in mind and all that and all he said was, "Second of all I don't believe in dowry, but first of all let my child be normal."

When my sister told me all this on the telephone recently, it sort of took me back to when my own mum was walking around heavy with me. I was born heir to the Martin millions quite by default, the one before me not surviving an accident at birth involving forceps. In an era that predated the advent of television to India, views and lifestyles were a lot simpler. The 78rpm was doing its last lap. Rosemary Clooney was enjoying huge radio success with that rather naughty song of hers, Where will the baby's dimple be? some of the lyrics of which went, "On the baby's knuckle or the baby's knee/ where will the baby's dimple be/ baby's cheek or baby's chin/ seems to me it will be a sin/ if it's always covered by a safety pin/ where will the dimple be?"

Needless to say, this song predated the discovery of Velcro and pampers. My aunts would tease mum about that dimple, wonderingly.

After I was born, of course, they used a natural process of elimination to arrive at their own conclusions. But she too, like Mrs. Thomas today, would receive streams of "well wishers" with 50 different kinds of advice. All that her father, my granddad would say to her was, "Stay healthy."

His wife, my dear grandma, attached herself to mum like a pillar for nine months, and then for many years after those first squawking moments. As for my dad, when asked if he wanted a boy or a girl, his response, like Mr. Thomas' was, "Let the child be normal." And then, of course, he got me. A perfectly balanced son, with, as one wit once said, a chip on each shoulder.