“My
Mother Does Not Work”
We are used
to see woman work around the house, from early in the morning to late at night.
They fetch and store water, clean the house and the surroundings, cook, wash
everyone’s clothes, take care of the children and the elderly, and attend to
those who may be sick. All these back breaking work is pulled together in what
is called “house work”.
Women seem “naturally” suited to house work. Others may “help” them, for house work is actually their responsibility.
In our society, womanhood is defined through these activities. It is common to
speak of women who are not good at these activities as un-womanly.
In fact, we
have shocked if all this is described as “work” because it is generally
considered as an expression of women's love for the family. They are not
expected to want appreciation, remuneration or even anything else in return. The
more selfless and service oriented a woman is the better she is considered. So,
even when woman work outside the home and earn money for the family, they are
expected to cook, take care of everyone, and also work around the house.
“The guilt
that the speaker does not feel haunts the reply”
We all know
that there are no such similar expectations of men. Girls in a family are
required to help with housework, but not the boys. Men are expected to earn for
the family, but not to share the work around the house or to look after the
people in the house. Of course some men and some boys do help in the house in
the house and do cook. Their numbers may be growing, but even today, that is
not generally true. The message that men get from society is that they should
not do housework. Men who help in the house may even be laughed at.
The teacher’s
question – “What does your mother do?”
The
automatic answer – “Nothing she’s a housewife”
The guilt
that the speaker does not feel haunts the reply.
The
knowledge
That the one
who wiped and polished the shoes on his feet.
Who washed
an ironed the clothes on his body-
Who made the
dosa he ate for breakfast-
Who packed
the tiffin box in his bag-
The one who
does these things every day
Does nothing
. . . she is only a mother.
The funny
thing is that men do all these activities for money. And when they work for
pay, they specialize in doing only one thing. We all know Sanjeev Kapoor, the famous
chef, don’t we? In hotels, housekeeping is a postgraduate specialization. Male
nurses, ward boys and doctors care for the elderly and sick. Washer people can
be both men and women. Laundries are usually run by men. Men are tailors.
Let us think
about these questions with the help of the following poem by Vimala, “Vantillu.”
Here, a woman
tells the story of women’s lives. It’s the story of the poet’s mother, and all “mothers”.
It is the story as well. History brings no change to women’s lives. What was
fun when children played together, turns into drudgery for the grown woman who
slaves alone. We never learn the mother’s name – for even the speaker’s name.
the mother is a ghost who haunts the poet’s kitchen, her arms turned into spoons
and spatulas. The poet remembers her as flaring up like a furnace sometimes. But
her anger did not start any revolution. In fact, despite the lifetime that women
have given to kitchen, the names engraved, even on the vessels are those of their
husbands.
Modernity
brings the poet a fancy kitchen with modern gadgets. But she remains, like her
mother, a slave to its demands. Even though some of the details of the poem may
sound specific to some families and communities , it highlights the nature of
compulsion and drudgery in everyday cooking.
Vantillu (The
Kitchen)
I remember
the kitchen’s
Flavor upon
flavor,
A mouthwatering treasury,
Pungence of
seasonings,
And the aroma
of incense
From the prayer
room
Next door. Each
morning
The kitchen
awoke
To the swish
of churring butter
The scaping
of scoured pots.
And in the
center, the stove.
Fresh washed
with mud, painted
And bedecked,
all set to burn.
We saved
secret money in the
Seasoning box;
hid sweets too,
And played
at cooking with lentils and
Jaggery.
We played
mother and father,
In the magic
world of kitchen
That wrapped
childhood in its spell.
No longer
playground for the grownup
Girl
Now trained
into kitchenhood.
Like all the
mothers
And mothers’
mothers before her, in
The kitchen
She becomes
woman right here.
Our kitchen
is a mortuary.
pans, tins,
gunny bags
crowd it
like cadavers
that hang
amid clouds of damp wood
smoke.
Mother floats,
a ghost here.
a floating
kitchen herself,
her eyes
melted in tears,
her hands worn
to spoons,
her arms,
spatulas that turn
into long
frying pans, and
other kitchen
tools.
Sometimes mother
glows
like a
blazing furnace
and burns
through the kitchen,
pacing,
restless, a caged tiger,
banging pots
and pans.
How easy,
they say,
the flick of
the ladle and the cooking’s
done.
No one
visits now.
No one comes
to the kitchen
except to
eat.
My mother
was queen of the kitchen,
but the name
engraved on the pots and
pans
Is Father’s.
Luck, they
say, landed e in my great
kitchen
gas stove,
grinder, sink, and tiles.
I make cakes
and puddings,
not
old-fashioned snacks as my mother
did.
But the name
engraved on pots and
pans
is my husband’s.
My kitchen
wakes to the whistle of the pressure cooker, the whirl of the electric grinder.
I am a
well-appointed kitchen myself, turning around like a mechanical doll. My kitchen
is a workshop, a clattering, busy butcher stall, where I cook and serve, clean,
and cook again. In dreams, my kitchen haunts me, my artistic kitchen dreams,
the smell of seasonings even in jasmine.
Damn all
kitchens. Many they burn to cinders,
The kitchens
that steal our dreams, drain
Our lives,
eat our days – like some enormous vulture.
Let us
destroy those kitchens that turned us into serving spoons. Let us remove the
names engraved on pots and pans.
Come, let us
tear out these private stoves,
Before our
daughters must step
Solitary into
these kitchens.
For our
children’s sake,
Let us
destroy these lonely kitchens.
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