Amitabh Bachchan entreats me to not leave my chair, saying he will be back in a trice. I am torn between the 50-50 option: Should I continue watching Mr Hotseat tying himself up in knots (or noughts) trying to figure (pun intended) what a ton stands for, or should I attend to my infant whose wails are about to reach a crescendo? Of course, maternal calling triumphed over baritone request. But the decision is far from instinctive. I am anything but a drop-everything-the-minute-your-baby-wails mother. And no, this is no cop-out. My baby is as well cared for as the next. It is just that I don't let paranoia and a near-obsessive concern become my guiding stars to effective mothering. But then, motherhood for me has hardly been conventional so far. One of the casualties of marrying late -- by Indian standards, that is - was having to constantly put up with asinine theories doled out in dollops by supposedly well-meaning and obviously married women friends and relatives about how wasted a woman's life is if untouched by motherhood. Now, I love children and motherhood always seemed an appealing option if only because at last I could tell someone how I always stood first in class, and be taken at face value (at least till the child is in the age of innocence phase!). For equally frivolous reasons, I always secretly aspired for a female offspring, so that I could do her up in pinks and use her hair to unleash my latent creativity in styling. Well, willy-nilly marriage happened and the baby followed soon after. Now God knows nine months is a long time to plan out, with help from pal Spock, a perfect welcome launch for the baby. I had anticipated being completely overcome by a deluge of emotions and tears of joy as I, a first-time mother, held the just-born, wet-and-slippery baby close to my chest. But not for me the untrammelled joys that motherhood brings in its great amniotic tide. A c-section delivery done under general anaesthesia ensured that I missed hearing her first cries as she cleared her lungs to announce her arrival. The first opportunity to imbibe the true spirit of motherhood, thus, went uncelebrated. The second was even more unspectacular. A good 18 hours after the baby arrived, a rather dishevelled-looking nursing aide stormed into my room to discuss business. God bless her soul, for she very generously agreed to let the mother have the first glimpse of her labour of love. But what was in it for her, she asked. After some feeble haggling from my side, we agreed on a sum, her sum. The price for motherhood, anyone? Then came this precious little parcel all swathed in blankets with a little round red face sticking out. And did I blow this one up as well! The every-two-minute pricks and jabs I was receiving subsequent to the delivery had me holding the baby so very awkwardly, perhaps even precariously, that she struggled with all the life force of a one-day-old to wrest herself free from my clutches. To say this was the most profoundly moving experience in my entire life would be a very politically and biologically correct thing, except that this was not quite the case with me. I was neither surging nor suffused, not even gushing with maternal pride. I was only writhing in post-maternal pain! It felt immensely nice to hold this tiny flesh-of-my-flesh and blood-of-my-blood, but was I glad to let the nurse have her back when she trilled 'nursery time'! Not just me, the baby too seemed infinitely happier in the nurse's arms rather than being with this strange guest who had ushered her from darkness unto light, but knew precious little about how to hold babies. Another botched chance to savour motherhood in its purest and most sublime form. The mother-child bonding exercise left truly in a bind! My little lamb, close to nine months now, has long forgiven her clumsy mother for the rather poor welcome party. But every so often she still turns the copybook mother-child bonding thingummy on its head. Like any other mother, I too could not wait for the day when she would say ma-ma. But does she oblige? No siree! That singular honour has gone to my maid, Nanda. And while the tot says N-a-n-d-a quite intelligibly and very frequently, she has a hard time saying mama. All my efforts to make her utter that magical word have her taking the maid's name still louder! Why the maid, she's also partial to her dad, even though she sees very little of him through the week. To have her dad sample what it is to take care of a child, two Sundays back I left the baby in his care and went out on a shopping spree. Expecting to hear how the kid was driving him up the wall, I must say the report I received upon my return left me feeling very short-changed. "She's sleeping like an angel," said the spouse. What?! Sleeping at that time?! What did someone say about having the luck of the devil! So Mr Bachchan, forgive me but I must leave Kaun Banega Crorepati to be with the infant. The decision, like I said, is not very instinctive. It is a calculated one. The stakes, I understand, are far higher in this one. It calls for more investments, but the dividends, they say, cannot be measured in mere crores. Purba Dutt is, however, not averse to making an appearance on KBC. Illustration: Uttam Ghosh Tell us what you think of this diary Be part of an exciting venture! 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