This is not Muthalik

The thing about being feminist and living around men is to try and get some balance. I feel the need for them to see things a little differently, so that my own life can move forward without my inner peace being thrown into chaos every day.

Fond as he was of his daughters, my father was unapologetically chauvinistic and controlling. Looking back, I try to factor in the insecurity that he was perhaps trying to deal with, but every time I came up against the chauvinism and control, it made me so very angry. Still does.


Of all the men I have met in my life, the mate is perhaps among the least controlling and chavinistic, but even between us, I know that many things are taken for granted. And it irks me, more seriously at some times than at others.

One of my biggest dreams has been to inculcate the "different but equal" concept in my son. Like all dreams that are built around other people, this one too has hitherto been a notable nonstarter.

The Big K has no concept of liberal thought, tolerance or equality. Of course, I am not entirely without hope because I know that we all learn to curb our selfish, animal instincts as we grow older. And I look forward to seeing some change though I now know that some stuff is hardwired and entirely acausal.

Up until recently, it had always been a matter of wonder to me that my son is classist and sexist. I naively expected that just being around me would remove any such tendencies. Sadly, it hasn't.

Like most kids, Ken is conservative. He has to follow the herd. And, of course, it's totally uncool to do what Mummmy says (unless you're married, when being a Mama's boy is the only way you can avoid being labelled 'henpecked'). So Ken, so far, remained faithful to his Nasraani roots and occasionally beats his chest and roars like King Kong.

Despite the fact that the mate cooks quite often and has never till date ordered a meal, the Big K figures that a recipe book is a book of cookery from which the husband tells his wife what to make. Despite my bent towards the hardwired, acausal theory, I can't help but wonder why.

I figured that this idea was dropped into Ken's head by last term's nasty Hindi school essay “Meri Maa,” which outlines things all mother do - from waking up early to make the child's favourite foods to tucking the child into bed with stories. Between these times, she performs tasks that could put a small army to shame. Not one word about work outside the home or creative stuff or shopping. Nothing. Maa is just a unidimensional Nirupa Roy. Period.

On the issue of marriage, Ken remains even more conservative. He figures that marriages have to be arranged, though he knows that the mate and I didn't have an arranged marriage. He was filled with a sense of injury and neglect when I mentioned during some random conversation that he has a right to choose his partner and his marital status. He has now enlisted his grandmother's support in arranging a marriage for him “when he is a man.” The poor child is only 8 and has no idea about what kind of trouble he has signed up for.

When the mate took the cub to shop in the nearby basti for Holi colours, he shocked me by complaining that “Papa took me to the slum where the dirty black-coloured people live. Why can't we buy colours at the malls?” His one ambition in life is to be "golden" like Papa and Little K and other fair-complexioned people of our acquaintance.

I firmly believe that everyone should learn to (a) make a living, (b) clean up after themselves and (c) cook their own food. That's the first step to being independent. While handing out chores, I explained that he should learn to keep house if he wants to live in a clean place and that as he grows older he should learn to cook if he wants to eat.

He suddenly got interested in the cooking part sometime last year and came into the kitchen armed with his little diary. While I demonstrated how to make dal, he sat down, laid down his book and pencil and munched a packet of cashew-nuts and topped it off with raisins. The recipe reads “ARHAAR TOOR DHALL – wash THE daL.” :)

Do-able chores that don't involve snacking perks are greeted with understandably less enthusiasm. It took us both a frustrating year, but Ken has finally acquired the basics of cleaning up. When I say “Clean the X Room,” and return half an hour later, it's actually clean. I got it into my head that he was getting the message. I was happy. Until last week.

He's on vacation at my parents' place. We were talking on the phone the other day when out of the blue he complained "I feel like a housekeeper when I pick up the mess in the hall."

"And being a housekeeper is bad because .....?” I replied.

"Because I am not a housekeeper. I am your son.”

“And I am not your cook. I am your mother.” I retorted.

“But mothers cook,” he insisted.

“And kids do chores around the house!”

“No. Utsav doesn't. And Jatin doesn't. And...”

I used the old universal mother's favourite comeback “They're not my sons.”

“But why should I learn all this?”

“Because then you will know how to do it. When you have your own place it will look neat. And you like things to be neat.”

“I do, but then when I have my own house, I will also have my own wife who will clean the house. That's her job.”

“We'll talk more about this when you get back,” I promised as I cut the call.

I then told myself to breathe slowly and tried to remember that this was my 8-year old talking. Not Muthalik.