Recently I dropped the H-Bomb. Nope. This is not another post/advertisement/meme/YouTube Video/gif/picture/program/special or another sensory blitzkrieg on Diwali that will melt your brain into a liquidized Diwali commercial.
While talking to parents, I dropped the H-Bomb that no son must ever utter if he is to have any claims over property. I said I wouldn’t mind being a house husband if there was a steady stream of income from something I liked doing.
Let me rewind and put some context to this.
I live alone and therefore have to literally manage an entire house by myself. All the free time I have earned and the freedom that I imagined goes into only four activities: buying groceries, cooking, washing dishes and going back to the grocery store because I forgot to buy phenyl.
One day my father and his friend were coming to visit me. A word about my father’s friend: Have you ever met someone and thought this person is THE reason stereotypes make sense? My father’s friend is an absolute small-town-bred-patriarch. He would fit into a 90s film so perfectly that the 80s would want him back!
While my father saw me purposefully walking out of my house early in the morning he wanted to show off to his friend that I am an early riser who goes out for a jog and hits the gym and drinks protein shake for water. He confidently asked me where I was going. A perfect set up to prove that I was made of XY chromosomes that were bathed in the sweat of Achilles and then caressed in the gentle arms of Akshay Kumar.
“I want go buy some vegetables and dhaniya. If I go too late all the fresh ones are taken away by these housewives and there’s always such a big crowd.”
His face crumpled faster than a flier in the hands of a disinterested passer-by.
It seems strange that, not only parents who grew up in a different India, but even friends who grew in a similar space have a little difficulty in comprehending the notion. A friend of mine was in town recently and he wanted to catch up. While he was suggesting mantastic Milind Soman approved activities such as catching up over beer, I dropped the idea that he and I should go grocery shopping with the carefulness required to build a tower of cards. He reacted with the gentleness of a table fan next to that same tower of cards.
And then discussion eventually moved on to the topic about house husband being a valid option for men. He was quite shocked by what I said. In face he was so shocked that I thought I said that all men must be treated like a living vacuum cleaner, breathing and whistling pressure cooker, a talking washing machine, a placid reproducing sex toy that must listen to the dictate of an insensitive, paan chewing partner for whom “conversation” means holding industrial weaponry on one hand and scratching the tummy with the other. Or as it is called in Haryana – husband and wife!
But the reason it is important to talk about these things without getting too judgemental no matter what the stance is because in the words of Canadian superhero Justin Trudeau “It’s 2015”. (IT’S NEARLY 2016. HOLY SHITBALLS! WHEN THE HELL DID IT BECOME 2016. WHY IS TIME FLYING SO FAST? I STILL REMEMBER FOLLOWING LAST ELECTIONS LIKE THE CHAMPIONS LEAGUE FINAL. WHAT? BJP LOST IN A STATE? NEXT YOU’LL TELL ME THAT MID TWENTIES ARE CLOSER THAN TEEN YEARS. WAIT A MINUTE. OH NO. OH NO. OH NO.)
Sorry had a bit of a panic attack. So here’s my new shaadi.com profile updated.
Name: Mukesh Manjunath
Profession: Enthusiastic blog writer who writes blog over enthusiastically
Age: Must not ask a (wo)man their age. Believable number! Product of the 90s.
Height: If gravity wasn’t so harsh 6 feet (almost there guys!)
Skin tone: The colour after 100 ml of milk is mixed with twenty grams of Bournvita. Stirred not shaken (There is a difference!)
Why am I a suitable choice: Post a recent panic attack, willing to be treated like a housewife!