The Housewife!

 Every man is a closet misogynist. And I mean it. You know it too. Touch your heart and be honest, brutally honest to yourself and you will realize, you agree. And if you disagree, you are either being dishonest or an exception, a rarity. I can unmask the former, men who disagree with a single word. Housewife! How many of you have used this word, are still using it and seen people use it and have been sanguine about it? Everyone does it and everyone knows it. Ever since the evolutions of the homosapien men have been misogynists and continue to be one and any view even slightly divergent to this is considered blasphemy or is mere lip service.

If you are looking to put a face to such people and are too embarrassed to think of yourself or anyone among your family and friends, let me volunteer. The description fits me to the T. Without sugar coating it I am that pure, unadulterated Male Chauvinist Pig, of Grade A variety. From the moment I hand over the wads of notes to my wife for monthly rations etc., I constantly remind her of me the prima donna, strutting around like a well plumed peacock and my wish being her command. And why shouldn’t it be so? After all I am the provider. It is I who am often sacrificing my personal life and time to go on constant tours, eat unhealthy, unhygienic, tasteless food, sacrificing sleep most of the times, missing out on family pleasures and striving to achieve betterment in my career and a social standing for her to be proud of. I mean who doesn’t like to be called the wife of a Senior Manager or Sales Head of an A list company? And if in the bargain I demand to be treated like numero uno at home, why not? It was with such a mindset, I once granted her the permission for a porandha aathu visit during Navaratri. And babysit too as a bonus. While bestowing the boon I refrained from telling her that neither I nor the children were really keen to spend three nights in a godforsaken village in the remotest part of Palakkad which had a Bhagavathy temple as its only source of entertainment.

For the children of course the prospect of spending a couple of days with papa alone was like what students feel when the school teacher takes an unexpected leave. The first day went off like a breeze. The milk was lapped up in a jiffy, breakfast at Annapoorna, lunch at Pizza Hut, chaat for tiffin, interspersed with packets of Kurkure and Lays and the night rounded off with a visit to McDonald’s. The excitement during the day included a game of badminton with the daughter and cricket in the drawing room with the son. To be honest, I had never seen my children happier than this. As I said good night to the world, I was left wondering on the cushy life my wife enjoyed while I had to slog it out like an ant perennially in search of a living.

Day two was of course a different matter, a different world altogether. The milk that was lapped up in a jiffy on day one had to be heated up multiple times before the same was as much as sipped. The menu of another round of Pizza or Burger was stonewalled and demands for “amma pannara thakkali rasam” and Biryani were put forward. Suggestions to the contrary were shooed away with threats to go on a hunger strike. My daughter deluged me with multiple diagrams to be drawn for her Science class which needed to be submitted once the school reopened. Cajoling my son to visit the potty with multiple inducements thrown in took up the rest of the morning. What started as Biryani finally ended up being pongal/khichdi type concoction and the thakkali rasam had thakkali on one side and rasam on the other. Having pushed the experiments down their throats the children were forced to hit the bed for a much needed (for me) siesta. A few snores into the act, I was woken up by an earthquake hitting the drawing room where the 2/2 and the 4/4 who had left the bed were amidst a verbal duel over the right to the remote. On getting the coherence back, a few friendly words of wisdom delivered at a decibel level not permitted anywhere except at bomb testing facilities, temporary truce was achieved. Multiple suggestions for an evening outing were shot down by His Majesty and Her Highness as stupid and I was dragged down to a water theme park just around the closing time. Dinner comprised of rotis which were more or less the exact replicas of multiple maps. Amidst peals of laughter and ridicule the son consumed Australia and North America while my daughter ate South America and another South America. Eurasia was split into two and Europe went to the girl and Asia to the boy. By now of course I was on the verge of a collapse. The whole world was revolving around at speeds unimagined before. Suffices to say I needed a respite. Even the prospect of pataoing Mukesh Ambani to will his wealth away to me or facing a fully charged up Dale Steyn in the badlands of Durban seemed like taking candy from a child. I plodded through the day and finally tucked the brats in. As I said good night to the world, I thanked my stars that I didn’t have to prepare them to school the next day.   

The world moved back to its saner characteristics on day three when my wife made her earlier than expected return. To say I was relieved would be an understatement, I was overwhelmed. I was in a sort of a daze as my wife shared her stories from Palakkad over a cup of coffee. My mind only replaying the past 48 hours. I was woken up from the stupor when I heard my wife speaking something about  dharisanam of the Goddess. Goddess! The word hit me like a sledgehammer! Realisation stared at me. The MCP took a body blow. That moment onwards I stopped searching for Goddesses in Sanctum Sanctorums. The Goddess was with me, speaking to me, taking care of me, my family and my world. My Goddess is no housewife. My Goddess is my Homemaker.