This happened a few days ago. It was the weekend, I was sitting in the balcony, reading a book which promised to answer some desperate questions (whole other post). I wasn’t able to focus on my book because my brain kept reminding me of random domestic errands that needed my attention. Our building has a terrace so I decided to go there and put some physical distance between my self and the chores.
So I got out of my chair, went into Prashanth’s room and said – “Hey, is it okay if I go upstairs to read my book for a bit?”
It was only when I was settled in the chair in the terrace that I realised something that made me so uncomfortable that I wasn’t able to read at all. Had I actually asked Prashanth for permission? Why did I do that, I kept asking myself. Because it is a Saturday evening, you’re not working today, so it is the the time to get house things done, and you’re playing hooky, my brain said. This is the prioritised to-do list according to my brain:
1. First, fulfil your professional responsibilities.
2. When you’re done with work (or when you’re taking break from work), get your domestic responsibilities done – tidy up the house, order grocery, plan meals, check in with family.
3. When work and domestic responsibilities are running on track, then invest in some self-care: meditate, exercise, sleep.
4. When all three are in place (work, home, self-care), and only then, it is okay to think about play and leisure — reading for pleasure. And writing.
This order is paramount. I experience a lot of discomfort if I do any activity outside this order of priority. And of course, the first two priorities never get done to my satisfaction – I’m always behind on my to-do lists at work, the house is never tidy enough to satisfy me. The anguish of unfinished work is my permanent companion. And it gets especially vocal whenever I want to read non-work related content. Or whenever I want to write stories. So I wasn’t really asking Prashanth for permission, I was asking myself for permission to break the order of priority.
I sometimes think I will be able to write more prolifically if I didn’t have so many work commitments; if actively I reduced my professional projects, I will be able to write more. But I wonder if that is true. Even if I didn’t have any work-work, house-work would always exist. I’ve experienced this so many times – when it is a choice between writing a story (which is starting out in my head as a tiny, half-formed thought) and folding the laundry (which is a large, hard-to-ignore pile), it is always easiest to pick the latter. That choice is partly driven by my old friend fear, of course. The one who says, what if your story is not worth reading? Five people will read it on medium, what is the big deal in that? That fear is an old friend and I can deal with her. The choice to pick laundry over writing is also driven by invisible structures of patriarchy that are so deeply settled inside my head that I can’t see them properly. I’m convinced that an untidy house takes away from the story of the successful and sorted human I’m trying to be.
This is hard to admit in the post-feminist world that I like to believe I live in. My generation is supposed to have already won all the battles that our mothers had to fight. I am an equal partner in my marriage, I get paid as well as any male co-worker, none of the men in my life can presume to tell me what to do with my life. I and all my women friends who live with men say (and believe) that domestic chores are not a woman’s job.
And yet, the piles of laundry call out only to me, and call me away from the stories I want to write. Why does this happen? Is it because my grandmother’s beliefs around a woman’s role in the world somehow sneakily got entangled with my beliefs? Is it because I’ve seen my mother do the laundry thousands of times, and very rarely my father? Is it because in spite of what we say and believe, I see that it is women who manage the home, with their men partners “helping as much as they can”, helping a lot more than their fathers ever did? Have we all reverted to a type that we thought we had left behind?
I’m working to excavate my inner writer from under these invisible, but rock-hard layers of patriarchy. I don’t do new year resolutions any more, but I will do some new year permissions. I’m giving my self permission to be happy in a slightly untidy house. Permission to read fiction in spite of unanswered calls and emails. Permission to not be the most responsive friend or the most perfect professional. Permission to write stories without worrying too much about my writing style. It’s funny how light and fluttery my chest feels as I write this. Who knew that simply deciding to be a chilled out bum would feel so good?
I realise I will end up reverting to my old patterns of choosing productivity and efficiency over presence and happiness, but that’s okay. Every now and then I will remember my new year permission to be an average human, and those moments will be enough.
