growing up to feminism

My sister mentioned home grown feminism in her blog. Was there indeed something like that in our homes? At surface level, there seems to be no room for feminism or indeed any kind of radicalism in our kind of background.

But then just as feminism approaches us in the safe spaces of women’s colleges and from the approved habits of reading classics, it finds strands in the dampest of traditions and voices in the silences of history and memory. It creeps through the crevices of correct upbringing, through the pauses between the narration of stories and their moralistic conclusions. It soaks our consciousness through the women in our lives.

Through a mother who countered every outbreak of temper with- ‘this is not the attitude with which you can go out into the world and make your way in it’. Leaving no doubt that not ‘going out into the world’ was an option we didn’t have.

And whose deep affection for her sibling never stopped her from making it known what she wanted to study and what she ended up studying and who was to blame.

Through an aunt who had to give up her job because her husband was too busy climbing to the top to share in parenthood and who never stopped regretting it, and is never satisfied with the cliché that she is ‘behind’ his phenomenal success.

Through another aunt who was forever criticised for prioritising her job over family occasions and functions.

And another who started working at the age of 40 to prove a point and find her worth and revels in that space which not only keeps her sane, but is all her own.

Through a relative who had to drop out of school when she got married to a man 13 years her senior, but who took her 12^th standard exam when her children were at college.

And another whose minimal knowledge of English didn’t stop her from learning how to operate the computer, and use the internet.

Through the glowing admiration for and fond recollection of a great grandmother (a tonsured widow) by her sons and grandsons; their assertion that had she the opportunity she could have been the prime minister. What kind of role model did she and their memory of her make for their daughters?

Feminism also pokes us through the barbs directed at unwomanly women. And through the sympathy and condolences expressed to people with no sons. And the fear felt by the people with no sons when they read an ancient text detailing the awful fate of their souls as their pyres would not be lit by the rightful male progeny. And when some of them react to this fate with a laugh (however nervous) and a shrug, it is a triumph for feminism

over (with) a cup of tea

I always throw used tea leaves into the dustbin. I hate the idea of tea leaves going down the drain. They could clog the drain.

But that once, while I didn’t wash them down the drain, I didn’t throw them away either. I left them on the strainer.

They stained the strainer. They dried up. They threatened to fly. So I wet them under the tap. They stained everything that came under them. It took much heavy duty dish wash and detergent to get rid of those stains.

A year later, I threw them away.

Wondering why I made that tea then anyway.

It wasn’t the time, just before lunch. My appetite remained unsteady for a long time.

It wasn’t my kind of tea either. Too much sugar. Tea leaves boiled for too long. Too sweet and too bitter at the same time.

Am now trying to pacify the strainer. And we can’t work it out over a cup of tea.

each not to her own

‘Have you got engaged?’ A student asks me as the class adjusts to seeing me in a saree. The expressions on their faces showed that whether they agreed with this possibility or not, they were all looking for an explanation. They did not look convinced when I said I liked wearing it, but nodded as I proceeded to explain I usually don’t find the time required. That they could comprehend, but still the fact that I had not come up with a reasonable explanation showed in the incredulity in their faces.

This reaction coincides with the other response I invariably get every time people gather I live alone and their next question is what I do for food. “I cook’ I answer, a little proudly of course, but also as a matter of course. Instead I am asked - Really? Don’t u find it boring? Isn’t it tedious? Why don’t u have a tiffin system? Aren’t hostels better just for this reason?

Would these people have the same reaction if I was married and had a ‘family’. If I wear a saree, even if occasionally, I guess would not provoke any big reaction but more so, cooking would be something I would be assumed to be doing. The image of the mother comes to mind- the woman so admired because she is so selfless. Mother’s food is always for others.

So is there a problem in doing something for myself. Dressing up just because I feel like it. Not for anyone. Not on any occasion. And cooking for myself. Because I like to eat good home cooked food too. And can make it even though I have not, in popular terms, made a home as yet.

Go Fish

See A fish called Wanda. It’s a hilarious tale of the aftermath of a robbery with various members of the team trying to backstab and outwit each other over the loot. (incidentally, what is it about fish and films on crooks? Fish out of water, another film I recently saw, was on the same lines). Made in 1988, it has references to the secret service, KGB as well as Margaret Thatcher and a popular (but always amusing) take on the English- their characteristics and way of life. The best is when we are informed of one of the crooks, a Nietchze spouting temperamental fellow, becoming the minister of justice in (apartheid) South Africa! It has a great deal of situational comedy and some super cool lines like:

Aristotle is not a Belgian, the central tenet of Buddhism is not each man to his own and the London Underground is not a political movement.

I have known sheep which can outwit you. I have worn dresses which have more IQ than you.