When someone asks me, “Do you work?”, I simply say “No”. Of course, I work at home, but that does not count — because everyone else does it. The fact that I cook, clean, wash, keep house, enjoy my time with the children, am available when my aged parents or in-laws fall sick, socialise with my neighbours, volunteer at the local public library — and savour every moment of it — all that does not matter.
These days, men and women have to be equal. It does not matter that our physical attributes are different, our sensibilities are different, our inclinations are different, and we even emote differently. No. We women are taught that we are no less than any man. If a man can hold a 9-to-5 job, we can too. If a man can put in extra hours at work, we should, too. Don’t get me wrong — I am all for an egalitarian society where men and women are equal.
But in my ideal world, men and women would complement each other as “father” and “mother” of the parent pair.
At 24, I was bright-eyed and eager to “work”. My job challenged me to constantly study and think and kept me on my feet. I was married then but my marital life did not interfere with the joy and contentment I received from my “work”. Then they came — the babies. First one, then another. Living in the United States as a middle-class person leaves a working mother no choice but to put the babies in day care. There are no doting grandmothers at hand. Nannies and housemaids are unaffordable. For all it was worth, it was just me and the mister. If I cooked, he cleaned. If I washed, he dried. If I changed nappies, he fed the little ones. But it was all one mad rush.
Then the inevitable happened — the babies fell sick, all the time. Doctors and well-wishers told me that was good for the baby’s immune system: it will build his resistance. All of a sudden the baby developed stranger anxiety. It was heart-wrenching to see him cry through most of the day at his day-care facility when he should have been exploring the world and enjoying himself. When he wanted to sleep in a little late in the mornings, I had to forcibly wake him up to ready him for the day care. At work I would be thinking of my unfulfilled mommy urges — holding the baby, reading to him, singing for him, napping with him. Back home, my mind would be fixated on office work.
Years pass. We relocate to India. I make a conscious decision to stay as a home-bound mother. I settle down nicely into the routine of getting the children ready for school, dropping them off, catching up on errands, eagerly waiting for the children in the evening with a healthy snack, spending leisure-filled evenings with them. But soon I am in for a rude shock. Questions like “What do you do?” and “What are you?” are initially handled proudly with “I am a stay-at-home mom”. But soon I find myself getting defensive, explaining how I enjoy being a mother who is always available for her children. I am lectured by well-meaning people on how educated women waste their education and lives by choosing to stay home rather than nurture their careers.
When women drop out from the workforce after having children, I wonder why it is considered such a bad thing. When a woman steps out of her home, the house does not keep itself. Neither do children raise themselves.
I realise that making the choice to stay home for my family is a privilege — not every working woman can afford that. And I am grateful for it. I know my worth cannot only be measured in the job I hold outside my home, or the power I wield over my fellow men and women, or the income I bring home.
If my heart lies closer to my hearth, I will not be afraid to listen to it. For I know even if I am brilliant at my “work”, I am completely replaceable there. But my role as a mother is indispensible and beyond definition. When my eight-year-old comes home from school screaming “Amma, where are you?”, I tell you, my heart overflows.
Trust me, this is no sacrifice but a very fulfilling life.
anandhi252@gmail.com
