In my heart...

Most of the time, I feel like an alien; so unlike other girls. I hate every kind of gender based stereotype and discrimination, with the result that I wear my hair short, advocate castration for MCPs(i.e. Male Chaunvinist Pigs) and insist that Nithin sit on MY lap. I see red whenever someone tells me I 'throw' and 'fight' like a girl. The very idea of marriage makes my breakfast move up uncomfortably to my throat, and my ideal home revolves around a lavender car, three dogs(one Golden Rett-Neo, one Labrador-Romeo, and a Cocker Spaniel...whom I haven't named yet),an excellent cook and a jacuzzi tub. There is no room for a man. Perhaps there will be; I neither know nor care. I feel pissed when people tell me purple is for girls(it was the color of aristocracy!!!) and there is nothing I hate more than pink. I also tend to be undemonstrative, career-minded and a total DISASTER in the kitchen.
But in some ways, I guess I'm a 'typical' girl. I cannot live without lipbalm and hair serum; I love nose piercings and skirts; I take audaciously long baths.
And, oh yeah, I want to be a mother someday.
I'm very clear on this point. Just yesterday, I read an article on adoption in Good Housekeeping magazine(we get about 4 monthly magazines in my house, and I devour them all). It was an eye-opener; I realized the joys, legal difficulties, societal hurdles and personal problems that single parents face. For a woman, it is more exaggerated; despite being financially independent and reasonably responsible, she is bombarded with questions-Is that her illegitimate child? Is she infertile? Who will marry her now?
While discussing this with my mother(who's a pretty broadminded person), I was drawn into an argument. She has never failed to be shocked by what she considers my 'foolish' decision-long before Angelina Jolie and Sushmita Sen made it fashionable, I had decided to adopt someday. My mother is convinced that no man will ever marry me if I do so. In desperation she suggested I use the newest biotech discovery(of manufacturing sperm from my bone marrow, fusing it with my ovum in vitro, and using a surrogate mother). She then detailed why I should refrain from such a 'rash' act-I will be shunned by society, the child will be birthed by a rape victim or a prostitute....
So? So what? That's more reason why the poor mite should get a chance for happiness, life and hope, instead of rotting away in an impersonal orphanage. This brings to mind one parent recounting how her adopted daughter would 'roll her head from side to side before sleeping.' This was because she was not rocked to sleep in her orphanage.
Many horror stories exist, and orphans suffer in a country already poor and overpopulated. I wish to save atleast one of them, preferably a girl, from the clutches of cruel Fate. If a man refuses me on that point, I am better off without him. If society disowns me, I will always have my daughter to fall back on...
My daughter. I can see her so clearly. Small, happy, curly-haired....With clear, soft skin, and shining, limpid eyes. I'll change her diapers at night and figure out how to mix baby formula and sterilise milk bottles.Her pattering feet with anklets will grow nearly as big as mine someday, and we'll go shoe shopping together, grumbling about lack of choice. She'll give me a hug when I return from the office, tired out, and I'll teach her to walk erect, never depend upon a man, and follow her heart. Her laughter, her tears, her joys, her sorrows...they will enrich my life and make it worth living, even on those days when I'm so depresed I can't get out of bed. Even during our worst fights, I'll remind myself that this girl is God's gift, a chance for me to be young again. I'll do my best to give her a good life, but I will never try to shield or protect her. I will watch, quietly, proudly, as she fights her battles-and triumphs.
Unfortunately, as of now, I can't see my future daughter in my future house, even though I can see every other detail so clearly. My untidy worktable, with my latest journalistic articles; Romeo, eating nonstop; my messy wardrobe; the heavy quilt on my bed. That's because I don't have a PHYSICAL definition of my perfect child. Her features, the colour of her skin, her attributes-they don't matter to me at all. A decade from now, as I stand in an orphanage, amidst cribs of sweet cooing babies, I'll venture a finger. She'll reach out and clasp it. With her miniscule palm. With a smile. I will cry. And an unbreakable, unshakeable bond will be formed.
But still I can cherish her, unborn and unseen.
How?
Because I can see her in my heart.