Patriarchy seems like a big word.
As if it must come with big actions, big words, said out loud – that give it its meaning.
But it actually thrives in the tiniest moments in regular Indian society.
Its seed is sown from the moment a girl is born. From the moment a boy is born.
We’ve all grown up seeing the women of our house always cooped up in the kitchen.
All the festivals, as if, are meant for everyone in the family except the women.
The entire responsibility of making a home feel festive enough lies in the hands of the women of the house. And in some cases, unfortunately, on the woman of the house.
How our society has cleverly shaped mindsets so beautifully that every little speck of patriarchy seems normal. Seems natural. Like gravity.
Table Of Contents
While growing up
Growing up, whatever I saw happen around me, around my house, naturally felt normal.
What does a child have to think about?
The mom cooks.
The mom cleans.
The mom tends to everyone’s needs.
The mom never has a Sunday.
The mom never gets praise.
Because why would you praise someone for doing what they’re supposed to do anyway?
The men step out to work, a daily dance of 9 to 5.
But still, work with a deadline.
Everyone rests on a Sunday, except the woman.
I can’t fathom how our mothers raised us on top of the 932 tasks they already had on their hands. With no one to share it with.
Or even being considerate enough to help once in a while.
This is what people have seen happen, this is what they expect to happen.
Stepping into adulthood
If there’s one word that encapsulates the emotion that dominated my stepping stones into adulthood, it’s – rebellion.
Rebellion against becoming everything, but like my mother.
To become better, to achieve more, to prioritize myself more than she ever did.
Hating her every piece of advice to take myself a notch down.
Walk with my head a bit lower, to not upset someone because the world isn’t kind to an unmarried, opinionated girl.
Learn the skills of homemaking because how else would someone want to marry you?
Take care of your skin, your hair, your body – not because you should love yourself – but to make sure someone finds you worthy enough to introduce you into their homes as unpaid labor.
Many of us girls end up hating cooking. Because of how the idea of it was introduced to us.
My mother did everything she could to persuade me to learn how to cook.
Little did she know, I’d watch YouTube recipes on my own for food that was never cooked in my own home – replicate it almost perfectly,
because I wanted to eat that. I wanted to learn to cook something for myself. For my happiness.
I wanted to see the outside world.
But had to be home by 6.
I wasn’t allowed to leave the city, often paired with the question: “What do you even know about the real world out there?”
The lab rat knows nothing.
The elephant in a circus knows nothing about the lush forests.
The world isn’t in the hot mustard oil or the fresh coriander garnish.
It’s out there, without the safe umbrella of your home.
The Rebellion was inevitable.
& Slowly accepting the truths
Turning into a fully-grown 30 year-old functioning adult has made me wise enough to accept the harsh truths.
No matter what I say, no matter how I try to empower the woman, she’s been rewired to the core.
My mother waits for my father to come home, to have dinner together.
A sweet gesture when you look at it from a distance.
Step a little closer and realise that staying hungry for someone isn’t the absolute best way to show your love for them.
Because if you truly love them, shouldn’t you take better care of yourself and eat so that you’re around for longer?
Not wait if it gets late. Not wait if you’ve medications to take.
And sometimes I wonder, who has the better life?
The one who doesn’t have a clue about the trap she is in
or
The one who knows the peril, yet remains helpless to escape it.
The former is usually the happier one.
I asked a very simple question to every woman in my family –
Q: “What’s your favorite food to eat at home?”
Not so shockingly, each and every one of them had the same answer.
And all of them answered with an exhausted laugh, surprised by the question, taken aback – is someone really asking what she likes? She, as an individual entity?
A: “I don’t even remember. After getting married, I’ve spent my whole life cooking according to everyone else’s likes and dislikes. What I like was never a question. I’ve forgotten what I love to eat. It’s been too long.”
My mother’s househelp had 2 daughters.
The husband was not in the picture. His whereabouts were unknown. Shows up once in a while, empties her bank account & leaves.
And recently, left her with another baby in her womb. With the age-old wish for a boy to continue the line.
The line of what exactly?
With an almost empty bank account, she worked until 2 days before she delivered a baby girl at her own home. She had to. With no one to fall back on.
You wouldn’t believe me if I told you that even after being in such a situation, there was never a day I saw her without her brightest smile at the door.
The bell rings.
She enters with a chirp in her voice, “Hello didi, kaise ho? Ghar pe sab badiya?”
Every. Single. Time.
Another househelp, an old woman my mother has known for over a decade, survives under the ungrateful roof of her son & his wife.
Another case of looting her hard-earned money. Threatening to kick her out of the house.
She too, is always smiling. Always showering me with her blessings.
All of my handbags, fancy footwear, and mom’s old sarees are hers. And God knows she loves to boast about the beautiful things she just got to others.
Patriarchy exists every time a guest arrives, and it’s the woman serving a glass of water.
The men complaining about a pinch of salt.
Don’t misunderstand this. Don’t miss the plot.
The climax, even.
Patriarchy and its toxicity don’t just thrive in poverty.
It blossoms just the same in the educated households. In the households that have doctors, engineers, businessmen & whoever men you can think of.
It blossoms every time the men of the house decide not to keep a maid for daily chores.
Every time a man refuses to eat dinner because what’s made isn’t his favorite.
Because the mother, the bahu, the wife – does it all and often, sadly, takes pride in it.
It’s never the daughter.
The daughter is lucky. As long as she is one.
The moment she steps into the shoes of another, it’s the beginning of another life.
I cannot help but notice this in every house I visit.
Most of the women present have left their own homes, their own shelters where they were cared for, where they were number one.
Where, when they fell sick, the whole home cared for them.
Not sigh about the undone chores that are to come in her recovery days.
It weighs on my heart:
Each of these women is also just a girl.
A girl that had dreams. Or didn’t even have the luxury to think of one.
Just a little daughter.
Just a little daughter making her way across the kitchen and the dining room, trying to perfect every task she does, to keep the family happy.
To keep the wheel turning.
While she slowly loses herself.
Runs on an efficient auto-mode.
Forgets what she loves.
Every single woman isn’t home.
And what is, even, home?
If not within the amniotic sac of a mother’s endless, most selfless love.
Who – wait for it –
…
…
…
is also a girl who left her mother and her home.
It’s an endless loop, isn’t it? The world revolves around her.
Everyone loves their mother.
A question that keeps me awake at night:
But who does the mother go to when she is tired?
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