Two male colleagues at lunch time are discussing who's the better husband.
One asks the other, "If your househelp doesn't come, what all will you do to help your wife."
"What's even there to do?" says the second, drawing a blank.
Both turn towards me.
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Next they discuss wiping their toddler's bum after a poop. Mr One says he's done it in emergency situations. Mr Two says he's done it a few times.
Both's kids are 2+ years old. Hmm...
Both acknowledge their wives are super women.
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"Men are biologically incapable of doing these things," explains Mr One. "Women are just naturally so much better, kinder, more sensitive."
... Or that's programming.
Something like "boys will be boys" to justify men not having to do 'more' (or even a bit in this case).
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Amazingly, though, both these men have wanted to be fathers their whole life. Mr Two describes the moment his son was born as the happiest in his life.
Yet, somehow, fatherhood hasn't changed their lives too much.
Unlike their partners who are now mother first, woman later.
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Just last month I met an incredible woman who produced an entire shoot (while parallely producing two more), joining calls while breastfeeding ("Thank god for video off," she said), sleeping barely 5 hours, checking on nanny and DOP at the same time!
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All of this feels quite terrifying. How is it that a woman's role has (rightfully) evolved to so much more—professional, social entity, householder, wife, daughter, mother.
But men's roles have barely expanded because they are not sensitive enough!?
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I'm not sure what else to say to articulate my fears, but all of this feels very scary.
How millions of women change their cities, houses, (leave their space) and move into a new, alien space, adjust, contribute to a new household, deal with a pregnancy AND raise a child—
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—sleepless, tired and often burdened with "looking hot again".
Just because women can, they should?
Something has to change? How?
Share your thoughts/stories/experiences.
Happy to listen.
One imp thing to note is the role WE women sometimes play in carrying ahead this system.
I am supposed to go on a 10 day trip in November. My first thought was not about my safety/travel/etc.
It was—"In November the maid is on leave. How will baba and Adi manage without me?"
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Are they both adults? Yes
Is there a replacement househelp? Yes.
Can they take care of themselves? Yes.
Yet, it feels like my responsibility to take care and make sure the house is running smoothly.
WHY? Conditioning.
I must, we must, grow out of it!!
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I met a man in a cab the other day. He was awful, impatient, terribly rude.
He honked at every car he saw, and almost knocked down a lady crossing the road. When I asked him to slow down, he glared at me.
I clung to my seat, counting minutes; hoping for the best.
THREAD.
A beggar lady came by. Our man glowered at her. Yelled at a tempo driver. Spoke very rudely to a couple on a bike.
What was his problem, I wondered. This rude, rude man.
Finally, destination reached, I rummaged for change. There was none.
Gingerly, I produced a ₹500.
2.
Now it was my turn to be glowered at.
Muttering under his breath, he shuffled through the storage in his cab. Papers, newspapers, photos of God, plastic, change—paraphernalia of a rude man's life.
Some days it hurts so much, colours all your hours. Other days, it's no where to be seen.
Death is not strange.
It's always there, ever permanent. The only thing that's truly permanent—thus entirely incomprehensible.
What is the point about being sad about death, though?
The sadness comes in waves..your heart squeezes inside your ribcage. You hug yourself and cry out of frustration—frustration because there's no end to this grief. No matter how much you cry they won't come back.
Even if you forget them, it'll make them no difference.
So unto what end goes this means?
Nothing.
Nothingness.
Afterall that is death.
Your someone special, bones and flesh, reduced to nothing, tears and wispy memories.
Indu stared at the empty-ish platform, panting. In the distance, the train picked up speed. The soles of her feet felt hot and dirty, the wet patch on her blouse clung to her back.
it was too late.
Who would bring Rishi from school today? What about Babuji's lunch?
THREAD.
On call, Mahesh listened to her predicament in silence
Then, in the way common to every man, he issued directions for the next time this happened. "Always go 10minutes early to the station. Don't attend the last darshan if it's close to the train timing. Go with a friend..."
2.
Nervously, Indu fidgeted as she listened to her husband trail on. There would be no next time! She would make sure.
But what about now!?
"How do I come back?" she gushed, interrupting Mahesh.
"Well. The next train is at 7. Take that, I'll pick you up from the station."
Three years back, when considering a job in Delhi, I found a broker online.
I saved his name as "Noida PG", spoke to him once about a flat, eventually didn't move, but somehow never landed up deleting the number.
Three years on, I feel like I've been a part of his life.
THREAD
Just like the 100 odd numbers we save ("Doodhwala Ramesh", "Aruna Taxi", "Kunal bus ticket guy" or "Satrangi Bandra Vegetables") and then forget, for months Noida PG sat in my phone contact list, forgotten.
Then, one day, while idling away, I saw a strange WhatsApp story.
2.
A bearded man in a black shirt, jeans and sunglasses was celebrating something with friends. They had lit a bonfire, and standing dangerously close to flames were laughing raucously.
I stared at the story and the name "Noida PG" wondering who this was and,