Chalo, theek hai.

Of parents, patriarchy, and the joys of growing into yourself

This edition is fourth in a five part series on ‘Delight’, but can be read without that context.

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Let’s begin with small talk as subjects like this often do. Let’s talk about the weather. The month of October is upon us and it is no longer the New Year that it was in January. September has ushered in the months of no season in particular, giving us the illusion that it could go anywhere from here, really. Summer? Winter? You won’t know what it is until it’s November and the layer of oversized shirt you’ve been reaching out for stays on for 3 days in a row. The desi gulab is blooming in my veranda and the books at the library are moving places as I air them to keep the moisture at bay. The rains have really helped Delhi’s AQI, and so perhaps for the last time this year, we are breathing deep. In and out.

Meditative breaths aside, things have been pretty busy at Khwaabghar over the past few months. We have had so many meet-ups, organised poetry nights, celebrated our first anniversary, and added to our collection of books. I have also become better at using Instagram (@khwaabgharstories) and talking about Khwaabghar there, though I still have mixed feelings about the platform and my presence. But this edition of the newsletter is not about the recent burst of events the library has experienced. This edition is about answering a symbolic question I get asked a lot. “You live with your parents? How the hell did you get your parents to agree to a library in your bedroom where strangers can come and read? And also, what happens to the library once you get married?”

But that is not really what anyone is asking. The questions that hide behind this are:

• How come you have a relationship with your parents where they actually listen to what you are saying, understand it, and then let it happen in a house they also occupy?

• Okay so you live here, but it’s not really “your house” your house right?

• You are obviously getting married at some point, and then of course you will move out, so this is just a hobby till you do?

I find myself annoyed at these questions, but I understand that they’re not asked in bad faith. These are perfectly valid questions given the way private property functions, the way parent-child relationships are organised in India, and the all-glorious, omnipresent patriarchy. If anything, these questions have pushed me to acknowledge that I really wouldn’t have dreamt of doing this 10 years ago. Sometimes when I look back at how far our family has come from the preordained dynamics of a middle class Punjabi family living in Delhi surrounded by gatekeepers of patriarchy, it amazes me that we managed to reach where we are today: breaking down the order of patriarchy little by little, with nothing to replace it yet.

Bollywood, Bartan, and Badtameezi

In a scene in the film, Dil Dhadakne Do, Aysha’s mother tries to talk her out of her decision to divorce. She explains how hard society is on single women, and how difficult her life can get. What follows is one of my favourite dialogues in any Bollywood film, “Agar mai kuch mushkil karne jaa rahi hu, to as parents to apko mujhe aur support karna chahiye na?”. If I am about to try something hard, shouldn’t you be more supportive as my parents?

That’s a great dialogue and a punch moment in the film, but in a standard Indian living room, it would have quickly turned into a Baghban moment of badtameezi. What is great about this dialogue however, is that it is a question which demands logic. It points towards the rich internal life of a person going through a crisis and asking for support where she should get it, if the narrative of a loving, supportive family were to be believed. She is arguing in a language they understand, a vocabulary that they have woven around her, and pushing from there. Whatever happened to Hum Saath Saath Hain folks?

But for all of us who have ‘grown up’ relishing Hum Saath Saath Hain, know the little “conditions apply” asterisk it comes with- Hum saath hain agar ap conforming hain. (I will not translate that one). With this cue of the ultimate family move, let me tell you a little bit about ours.

Both sets of my grandparents moved to this side of the border after the Partition, and except for a couple of stops in Punjab for a short while, they have always been in Delhi. My parents grew up in North Delhi, had an arranged marriage, two daughters, and inherited a big extended family. This meant that my sister and I grew up surrounded by people, identifying a favourite dish and corner at every house we frequented, and parented by all the brothers and sisters and bhabis and older and younger cousins of our parents. We loved it. The amount of unpaid care work, social obligations, patriarchal expectations, and responsibilities our parents and particularly my mother shouldered were invisible to me and my sister for a very long time, and it is a well documented truth from many households. I would refer you to various editions of Womaning in India for a fuller account of what this might have looked like. What is surprising in hindsight is the series of decisions our parents managed to take to build a life very different from this one. I don’t think they designed it this way, I don’t think they were aiming for anything in particular. No matter how closely I look, I find no evidence of consistency, just a will to do right by their daughters in that moment.

Many years ago at a dinner table conversation between adults, I remember someone praising Papa for writing him an email that said “I am blessed with two daughters”, and how rare that was. According to me, writing emails was also rare then, I was 11. Anyhow, I didn’t know about this exchange. “That’s what I always say”, Papa replied. I think this was the first time I realised that within the setup of the Indian family, we were experiencing a phenomena. Unlike the patterns we saw around us, our parents insisted on opening up the world to us, investing in our education, over and over again. When people around us felt bad for our parents for having two girls, and allocated their resources to acquiring real estate, building bigger business, or a rental income, our parents worked hard to fund our unconventional subject and college choices, specialist Master courses, and a life away from home. Does that mean we never had our Dil Dhadakne Do moments?

Kuch kuch hota hai, boys. Tum nahi samjhoge.

In the Feminism and Marriages meet-up I hosted earlier this year at Khwaabghar, a participant said something which was nothing short of a revelation for me. She said that because boys hardly ever had to negotiate for the basics of what they wanted to do, they had limited possibilities of developing the kind of relationship that girls do with their parents. If you’re asking permission to stay out, stay up, wear this and that, sleep over, and always pass your friends through a flurry of screening tests, your parents are bound to learn a thing or two about you. You are likely to anticipate their reactions, manoeuvre around them, predict the results of a conversation using the precarious evidence of mood and body language, and say a clear no to plans which you know will not meet the cut. A night out in Sanjay Van? Na. Impossible. 

(It is amazing how hard gender educators have to work to teach girls to say no, when they constantly say no- to themselves.)

This revelation was made in the context of parents of Indian men being surprised when they suddenly start negotiating on behalf of their wives, because they’ve never done it before. Well of course not, because they never had to!

My sister and I had the usual set of rules that girls in our socio-demographic surroundings grew up with in the 90s and early 2000s. We had Barbie dolls we learned to mother early on, and there were widespread opinions on what should be worn, who should be a friend, how much should be said, when and whom we should be able to call, and who could come for a birthday party at home. There were no rules about boyfriends because we weren’t supposed to have any. I cannot take you back to the exact moment things started to change. I can tell you that I distinctly remember my father’s nervousness in bidding goodbye to my sister when she left home and went to LSE, and in walking me to the metro station on my first day of LSR, a “feminist” college known to spoil your daughters. He didn’t say anything because, well, LSE…LSR, but I could feel it, and I was so proud of him.

We also had our fair share of the usual Indian parent currency, which has become the stuff of brown parent memes:

“Beta shuru se hota aya hai.”

“Maan jaya karo baat bas.”

“Hum apka bura sochenge?”

“Koi kya bolega?”

“Jawab to hume dena padta hai.” (Which is true for the record, and I appreciate it.)

I really cannot overstate how far we have come from this. My sister and I are known to make whacky decisions, present logical arguments, interrupt injustice, and call out unfairness in social gatherings. Mumma glances at us when someone passes a comment and seats herself deeper into the sofa, making sure she is comfortable for the long argument that is likely to follow. We have reached a point where we find them helping us build the life WE say we want, appreciating as it manifests, and slipping a few Punjabi idioms in every now and then. While we derive happiness from each other’s company, we have stopped forcing each other into a charade of roles everyone expects us to play. It is not without its benefits for them. They are slowly, hesitatingly finding themselves free from the conventional roles of looking after, defending, providing, and protecting. They can free up their mental space for themselves. In moments of clarity, they too ask “Why bother with all the patriarchy?”

This doesn’t mean we do not disagree. We disagree so much, it’s unbelievable we’re the same family. It is the flavour of these disagreements that has changed. It is now grounded in the fundamental assumption that the other person is a separate, independent, and fully grown human being with their opinions, and the ability to take care of themselves. It is a dialogue between independent nations instead of colonies and colonisers, if you will. We are no longer kids, and definitely not an evil female force out to undo the work of generations of izzat and biradri.

It doesn’t mean our change is complete and over. It has also been slow, littered with discomfort and conflict, but looking back, it has been life changing for us. They will never say it in so many words, because it’s hard to deviate as it is. So they have developed their own vocabulary to inch closer to an agreement which doesn’t sound like one- Chalo koi ni, theek hai phir. A discount of circumstance. A forgiveness when they wouldn’t accept that despite everything, they have turned out to be these parents.

Some of the alternative additions to their vocabulary now are:

“Dekhlo, decision to apka hi hai.”

“Jo karne ka mann ho wahi karna, Dekh lenge.”

“Haan koi bole to bole.”

“Ander se to kisiko nahi karna hota waise.”

“Hai to sab drama hi.”

“Saanu ki.”

So what does it mean now, and what is the answer to the question about Khwaabghar?

Our living room has a well sitting arrangement, opening towards the kitchen area. Being a very social household, the well is often full of people, chicken tikkas, and ready to eat spring rolls. Green chutney is a fixture in our house and as a rule, chai is available within 8 minutes of being asked for. Papa makes the best tea, stirring it constantly with a spoon to perfect the colour, and he pours milk like you would pour an explosive chemical in a chemistry lab. He has amassed specific tools from Home Centre which pour the milk perfectly. He has also picked chores around the house which go way beyond fetching things from the market. Back to the living room. The well shaped sitting with its mouth towards the food was a deliberate choice. Yes, it keeps the food coming in without disrupting the conversation, but it also ensures the inclusion of those who are usually serving it- the women. As the hosting activity in our house has evolved and grown over time, I have started to design get togethers, menus, and drinks to minimise the time me and my mother spend in the kitchen, and maximise our time at the table. Our table. The rule of thumb is, we will not feed the speaking mouths of people at the cost of our time, energy, and opinions. If that means you get to eat chilli chicken instead of butter chicken, so be it.

This is not a big deal, and this will by no means bring the patriarchy down. But the point of this piece is that details, time, and effort add up to small revolutions. People have gotten used to having us in the room, and hearing our opinions. They have gotten used to the sight of me, and to the fact that I have something to say. They no longer assume that I boil rice perfectly by virtue of being a 26 year old girl, and no one argues when I say, Jo khaata hai, usse banana bi aana chahiye. Anyone who eats should know how to cook to survive. Of course every now and then, stray guests will shake their heads in disapproval when my father actively seeks my opinion. “Baabu, what do you think?” is met with all kinds of opinions not arising from Baabu. It doesn’t bother me anymore. The anger, the frustration, the comments, the disapproval has only fed the nagging feeling that our potential far exceeds our possibility: it has all channelled into what we are today, and what we will always be becoming.

Khwaabghar is a part and parcel of that process: I merely suggested the idea of starting a library in our house and exhibited the willingness to do it. My parents wholeheartedly jumped in, and as witnesses to how far we’ve come and what we’ve built, they never even brought up marriage. So that’s your answer.