Column | When Phuphee became a ‘village’

With the birth of a baby you gain something precious, but you also lose something of yourself. This is when support and a sisterhood become essential

Six weeks after the birth of my second baby, I was diagnosed with postpartum depression. Even now, after having recovered to a large extent, I can’t think about it without feeling sad and overwhelmed. One of the earliest things that I remember is feeling anxious, and not the low-key ‘I-can-set-it-aside-if-I-want-to’ anxiety but the kind that feels like someone has thrust a large knife deep into your gut and periodically decides to twist it.

Towards the end of the fourth week this crippling anxiety turned into feelings of hopelessness. I would look at my beautiful baby waiting for the feelings of joy and happiness to surround me but they wouldn’t come and this in turn would lead to feelings of guilt. Maybe I didn’t deserve my bundle of joy, I thought. How awful a mother must I be, I thought, to feel no joy on seeing my baby? And on the days that I didn’t feel sad or hopeless, I felt rage — like I had never known before.

Like a pendulum, I got caught between these two extremes and each day became an exhausting exercise in trying to exist. One day when my husband came back from work, he found me sitting on the floor weeping. He picked me up and said, ‘I think we need some help.’ And he called Phuphee.

‘Dappsaa mae soarie [tell me everything],” she said. I heard her light her cigarettes and inhale deeply.

‘You will see a doctor first thing tomorrow,’ she said, ‘and I will book my tickets and I will be with you as soon as I can.’

Over the next few weeks I saw a doctor, started medication and prayed for Phuphee to arrive. The day she reached was the first time in weeks that I slept longer than three hours. The relief I felt at having her in the house made me feel so at ease that for the next few days I felt slightly sleepy every time I sat with her. Phuphee would make me go for a short walk every day while she watched over the children. At first I was anxious to leave them, even for a short while, but each time at the door, she would wink at me and say, ‘I have raised three successfully. I promise to guard these two with my life.’

Every morning, she would make a large breakfast. The comforting smell of ghee would waft through the whole house as she made rotis and parathas and eggs and nun chai (salt tea). She would make dodh kahwe (milk kahwa, a hot drink with cardamom, cinnamon, green tea and milk) in a large stockpot and leave it on simmer for the rest of the day, doling out the concoction every so often. Sometimes, she would add a few strands of saffron to it or crushed almonds and dates. Each cup was a balm for every single hurt or ache I felt and with each sip the hurt receded. When I felt a little more confident in myself, I started walking to school with my elder one. The sadness, the hopelessness and the rage started to ebb away. I started to feel like myself again.