Part of what I am writing today is what I had written - written, with pen on paper - on a bus journey a few days ago. Part of it is what I have been thinking of for more days than I remember.

(From the bus journey)

For a while now I've been thinking of putting down what I think of feminism. Walking to RISJ one morning, I was, as usual, talking to myself and found myself in a conversation about feminism, what I think of it, and how much my thoughts might have changed in the past decade, or rather, since college.
The first major change that I can think of is the fact that I am less shrill, far less shrill, than I used to be. In fact, I hardly talk about it. And that is probably because I have come to believe that there is very little to talk about really, very little to discuss or debate. The time for that is long past. And talking, honestly, can only do so much, and never more. The time now, then, is to do; to live what we believe. Because not only does that have far greater effect than all the talk, it is the greatest test that we can put our own beliefs and convictions to. It is the only way in which we can know if what we believe in is what can be done. There will be mistakes, and we should be ready for them. But those mistakes, too, are necessary. They are as important.
I had not quite given feminism much thought till I found myself writing an essay on it [for a national competition] in the first year of college. I had not wanted to write it, but, when I had to, I wrote, as its first line: "If asking for equal rights makes me a feminist, then I am a feminist." There had not been any profound thought behind that line. Just that it had appeared to be simple enough, and true. Thirteen years after writing it I still hold it to be true. The only difference is that [my] perception of a feminist has become more layered. More problematic, in a way. In the years in college, I asked 'feminists' questions that they did not like, that they got angry at. I was booed at. But I still could not bring myself to agree with all of what they said.
The one, foremost, aspect that I never liked about a certain kind of feminists - the kind who didn't like my questions - is their blanket hatred towards men. I have never hated men. And, in fact, loved a few of them intensely. Starting with my father. But fathers don't fall in the same category, you might say. But don't they? Isn't he the first grown man most of us have in our lives? And, for many, the man we love the most for a large part of our lives? Do we do so because they are flawless creatures, with nothing that we feel (and know) needs to change, evolve, be different? We love them despite, sometimes inspite of, all their failings.

(and now...)

I have always believed that if men are what they are - good or bad - their mothers should be seen as a strong reason for that. I mean, a man probably refuses to get himself a glass of water at home and looks to the wife or servant for it because, as a child, he was waited upon hand and foot by his family for being the son. The daughter was probably not. The son is naturally expected to do well at studies and, eventually, at work. (Now that creates an entirely different set of unfairness.) The daughter, on the other hand, is - in urban, middle-class families - expected to do well in studies as well, and probably get a job. But does it matter as much what kind of job she gets, how much she earns, and, most importantly for me, if she continues to work for the rest of her life? I am yet to see that in earnest.

And this brings to me the crux of my anger.

As I have grown older, I have seen the number of women friends, acquaintances and colleagues who are still holding down their jobs with the same degree of seriousness, dedication and earnestness dwindle. And there is no fixed pattern to this. There are women who have gotten married, had children, and quit their jobs for good. Their are women who have gotten married, not yet had children and still quit their jobs. There are women who are not yet married and quit their jobs. Reasons provided are abundant: "family pressure" being the most ambiguous and oft-sited of the lot; then there is the issue of "taking care of the child" (so, why is it that the mother is more responsible for that than the father beyond the breast-feeding stage?); and then of course there are those who simply want to stay at home because their husbands earn enough and they don't need to earn at all (to pay the EMI and the bills). And it is this last category of women who I sincerely believe should have gotten married as soon as were legally eligible to do so and spared the seats in their colleges for men who probably needed those seats and the consequent jobs much more.

A little too rabid? Really?

Most of the women I know who have done this have had some of the best education available. They belong to a miniscule minority of the privileged classes who have had access to schools and colleges of quality and repute. They have, no doubt, put in a lot of hard work to remain in those schools and colleges and not get kicked out. And that makes it all the more puzzling. What happened to all the effort that went into that college degree, that post-graduation? And you know, that argument about how much it has enriched them as a person (like attaining an enlightenment of sorts) is bullshit. Their children will probably learn their first letters and numbers at a play school, and not from their mothers, and go to tuition classes for most of their school lives.

And the reason why this makes me so livid is because one of the reasons why women who still choose to work are paid less than men is because of all the women who choose to quit. Look at it from the point of view of an employer. A woman walks in for a job. The employer is always trying to figure out if she is married/has a child, simply because it will give an idea of when she might leave. Why pay her more? She will leave anyway. Whereas the chances of a man sticking around are more, because he has to earn for his family.

Leaving aside all these arguments - which, of course - have many sides and shades to them, I just have one question in mind: Exactly what does it do to a person's self-respect and self-worth to know that he/she is living off someone else for the rest of their lives, despite being completely capable of not doing so? How would I feel if, at this age, I had to ask my parents for money so that I could eat out, watch a movie, buy a book or a pair of jeans? Quite unimaginable, isn't it? Then how is it any different from asking my husband for money to buy every piece of clothing, every meal, every movie ticket - every god damned thing - for the rest of my life?

Choosing to earn my living is not about proving a point to anyone, it is simply about self-respect.