I never imagined in my life that I'd write a column about poo. So, if you're squeamish, you can turn the page now, or read on in fascinated horror.

Recently, I was invited over by a friend, whose daughter-in-law returned from her maika, bringing home their first grandchild, a baby girl, for the first time. The new mother was radiant as they did a 'kanku pagla': the baby's feet were dipped in kumkum water, and it was made to 'walk' on a white cloth, so its adorable first footprints were captured in auspicious red forever. As everyone cooed, the little one let out a small, tentative whimper. The young mother took the baby in, laid her down, flipped open her diaper, matter-of-factly lifted the baby's ankles together in the air with practiced ease, and glanced down, waiting for "deliverables", without pausing in her chatting. A fleeting glance, and mums can generally tell if the delivery is acceptable; if suspicious, they unsqueamishly sniff to check what the problem could be, without turning a hair. Women can do this; the male of the species is not generally equipped with such fortitude.