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I let my husband go to his workplace with a tear in his shirt. I saw it. I still did not pester him to change the shirt, so I can sew the tear. He was okay with it. He did not give two hoots about it. So I decided to not give two hoots about it either.
This morning, I made a very revolutionary decision of not letting the patriarchy win in my head. I let my husband go to his workplace with a tear in his shirt. I saw it. Likewise, I told him. It was not a big tear. I would not have even noticed it if it was not for our “come home soon” hug.
If some keen observer at his workplace decided to spend his productive time staring at my husband’s shoulder, he would have noticed a shiny vest peeking out coyly.
I still did not pester him to change the shirt, so I can sew the tear. He was okay with it. He did not give two hoots about it. So I decided to not give two hoots about it either.
Hawwww! I heard the collective gasp of women surviving daily under the pressure of ensuring their husbands go to work neatly dressed. Regardless their own proclivity of spending energy towards how and what should someone dress like, they know they will bear the sole responsibility of how their husband’s clothes look. The blame shall be laid upon them.
Why! I heard all the Hemas, Sushmas, Jayas and Rekhas flabbergasted. Why indeed would I not take the effort of sending my husband prim and proper?
What! I heard my mother’s screams. Where is your good wife decency? Is this how you send your husband in society?
NO! I heard my deeply conditioned brain ask myself, is this how I intended to become the Lakshmi of this household?
The feeling of having failed my life, family, husband crept insidiously, persistently, and I ignored it.
I did not, in all honesty, wake up with such an intention of revolution. I had missed taking my dose of Desvenlafaxine yesterday, so my serotonin and dopamine both were running low, and the withdrawal symptoms hit me only at night.
Furthermore, I had dreamt about almost naked women with their naturally augmented breasts, and men with their weird bulks, living in cave like structures, sustainably handling their first gay rebellion. I woke up groggy, with a mild headache starting to make its home in my brain.
The internal auditor of my bank had steadfastly refused any explanation or grant any concession with respect to the performance of my department. A cousin was complaining about my mother, who is living with them, being stubborn about not going to the dentist for her prolonged severe toothache.
The menstrual cup that I have been trying to get comfortable with for about a year now kept popping right out at the touch of my skin. The spouse decided the tea was not milky enough and poured an extra dose of milk, taking off all the caffeine out of it.
And so I decided to triumph over my own patriarchy by not minding my husband about his clothes. I wanted this win. As I sit and type this, after having my SOS and my daily D Veniz dose it suddenly feels like a very tiny thing to be proud of, but when I think back and recollect the sort of pressure I felt at that precise moment my husband was stepping out, I feel good now for not letting it win.
I am glad that at least today I will remember myself as a person who had all the chances to spiral right into the abyss, of patriarchy, of societal expectations, of stressful work-life balance, but chose to stay as focused on not spiralling as a cat focusses when she is stalking her prey. This win would be mine.
Image source: shylendrahoode via Getty Images signature, free on CanvaPro
As I await the revolution - I crush the mustard seeds and milk the poppy. read more...
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UP Boards Topper Prachi Nigam was trolled on social media for her facial hair; our obsession with appearance is harsh on young minds.
Prachi Nigam’s photo has been doing the rounds on social media for the right reasons. Well, scratch that- I wish the above statement were true. This 15-year-old girl should ideally be revelling in her spectacular achievement of scoring a whopping 98.05% and topping her tenth-grade boards. But oddly enough, along with her marks, it’s something else that garners more attention – her facial hair.
While the trolls are driving themselves giddy by mocking this girl who hasn’t even completed her school yet, the ones who are taking her side are going one step ahead – they are sharing her photoshopped pictures, sans the facial hair, looking nothing less than a celebrity with captions saying – “Prachi Nigam, ten years later”.
Doctors have already diagnosed her with PCOD in their comments, based on photographic evidence. While we have names for people shamed for their weight – body shaming, for their skin colour- racism, for their age- age shaming, for being a female- sexism, this category of shaming where one faces criticism for their appearance has no name. With that, it also has zero shame attached to it.
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