The tender wonder – The Hindu

The softest burdens rest the heaviest on the heart. Nothing proves this more beautifully than the moment one carries a baby. Each time I lift a little one, the world around me seems to take a deep breath and slow its pace. The clock forgets its duty, my thoughts stop quarrelling with one another, and a strange peace arrives, as if on tiptoe. A tiny tot wrapped in cotton and innocence becomes the most natural stress reliever life has invented.

The art of holding a baby, I realised, begins even before the arms rise. My steps soften, my voice settles into a whisper, and something within reminds me that tenderness is a language best spoken quietly. The infant, warm and plump, fits into the flex of my arm with an ease that makes me believe nature rehearsed this pose for centuries. Elders joke that babies bring their own geometry, and I have never doubted it. There is music in this act. A little head resting on my shoulder, a cheek brushing mine, and the faint scent of talcum powder mingling with hope. Even the most serious face melts into an involuntary smile. Psychologists call it oxytocin — the cuddle or the feel-good bonding hormone. Grandmothers simply call it magic.

I once visited a friend during a power cut and watched her husband pacing the dimly lit hall with their three-month-old son. The father gently swayed while the baby, alarmed at the darkness, slowly allowed his tiny body to relax. When the lights blinked back, both were asleep, forehead touching forehead. I remember thinking that comfort does not come from grand gestures. Sometimes it appears in the quiet union of two hearts beating together.

Babies are tiny philosophers. When carried, they observe the world with a seriousness that would humble scholars. Their eyes trace the slow turning of ceiling fans, follow the colours in sari borders or widen at the sound of a lullaby. A mother’s smile becomes a complete universe. Without realising it, the adult holding the child begins to rediscover the world with fresh curiosity.

Another friend once told me that her daughter responded more to colours than to music. Show her anything yellow, and she would light up like morning. Hold her near a window, and she would stretch her fingers towards the sunlight as if she were painting the air. It reminded me of the saying that every child is an artist until the world quietly teaches otherwise.

There is also a glow that babies lend to the one who holds them. It is the glow of being responsible for a life that knows nothing yet trusts everything. It is not merely emotional. It carries a psychological calm, the reassurance that in a noisy world, there exists a small corner where love speaks without rules.

Carrying a baby is an invitation to be fully present. In those moments, unpaid bills and half-finished tasks fall silent. The smallest heartbeat becomes the grandest lesson and love reveals itself not in long speeches but in the warmth of fingertips.

Whether the baby is ours or borrowed from a neighbour for a few minutes, the heart returns softer and the world suddenly seems easier to handle. And yet, what a contrast life creates. The tender, trusting infant slowly becomes the adult who guards feelings, doubts intentions, and sometimes forgets wonder. Innocence, once pure as morning light, learns caution. How marvellous that nature begins every life with softness, only to let the world slowly sculpt it into complexity. What a mystery. What a design. What a nature.

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