Home and Grit

 I want to say this gently, but there’s no gentle way to say it: I’m angry.

Not in a throw-things-across-the-room kind of way. Not even in a stomp-around-and-yell-all-day way. Just… that slow simmer. The kind of simmer that happens when you’re a woman managing a home. A home that pulses with people, problems, routines, and repairs—and where sometimes, the people who help keep the place running act like they’re doing you a favour simply by existing in it.

Let me be clear: I have prejudices about men. I do.

I believe many men—especially in workspaces around the home—don’t respect women. They don’t listen until they’re forced to. They test the line. They mutter back. They act like being corrected is an affront to their very manhood. And no, I don’t think all men are like this, but I do think too many are.

When I say this aloud, my father—a deeply intelligent and affectionate man—tells me I’m being a “wrong feminist.” That I’m generalizing. That I sound like someone who hates men.

But here’s the thing.

Step into my shoes. Step into our shoes.

Be the one managing home maintenance, groceries, bills, the house help, plumbing, garden, the gas cylinder man, and the dog. Be the one whose ideas are second-guessed. Be the one who has to say everything twice, and only gets heard when the tone becomes sharp.

This isn’t hate. This is exhaustion.

Take Muniyappa, our gardener. Skilled, yes. Dedicated. But always with a tipsy entourage—men who look like they don’t quite belong, but swagger around like they own the land. I don’t like the energy they bring in. It’s not about skill. It’s about attitude. It’s about the bossiness, the resistance to instruction, the sideways glances.

Then there’s Kumara, our driver. Respectful, dependable, and yet—he contradicts. Offers unsolicited opinions on decisions already made. Challenges my choices, gently, but firmly, until I raise my voice.

And that’s when it happens—the moment I hate.

They look at me like I’m unreasonable. Like I’m crazy. Like I’ve lost it. Because apparently, a woman is supposed to be endlessly calm, endlessly soft-spoken, endlessly tolerant.

I hate that moment. But I also hate that I had to get there at all.

So now I’m asking myself: What is the respectful way to deal with this?

Should I grit my teeth and let it pass? Swallow the feeling just to keep things smooth?

No.

Because silence isn’t peace. It’s postponement.

What I’m trying now is this: I say what I expect, calmly and clearly, before things boil over. I draw boundaries. I name my discomfort. I don’t pretend to be okay when I’m not. And when I have to say it again, I remind them: I said this the first time with respect. Why should it take my anger for it to land?

Maybe that’s what a better kind of feminism looks like. One that holds everyone accountable—including myself.

So yes, I have prejudices. But they come from years of lived experience. And they are being softened—not by silence, but by clarity, courage, and the willingness to speak before I scream.

This is my home.
I deserve respect in it.
And so do the people I speak to. But not more than me. Never more than me.

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Snakes, School, and Supper: Just Another Day

Some days start slow. Today didn’t even pretend.

It was just the second day of school after the holidays, and the alarm clock crowed at 4:55 am. From there, it was the usual weekday whirlwind—rushing into a cold shower, quick gulps of smoothie,  brisk walk to the bus stop, navigating traffic. The morning air had that slight tension of a day that had ideas of its own.

By the time I returned home, the skies had opened up and poured their hearts out. I walked into the house soaked and ready to put my feet up when Kumara, our driver, came in with a face that meant drama.

“Madam! There was a snake in the garden!”

He described it as big, brown, and fast. It had turned and vanished when it saw him.

And just like that, calm left the building. I had to take charge. I thought about Pappa walking in the garden to water the plants, Cub 5 running around, Sundaresha and Sundermurthy of the opposite house..

Even as part of me was leaping with excitement—I mean, a snake! A real one!—the more practical side kicked in. We called the snake catcher. Calls were made. 

The snake catcher came. We narrowed down the possible hiding spot and sprayed a pungent liquid that I can still smell if I close my eyes. (Is this even safe for the snake)

I was settling into my counseling session when Pappa yelled from the other room, “They’ve spotted the snake!”

I leaped out of my chair and ran.

In the garden, all I could first smell was the pungent liquid repellent. Arrgh!  (I’d never even heard of snake repellent before. I wonder: is it safe for the snake? Please let it not be harmful to the snake, I prayed) 

A tense few minutes later, a green vine snake slowly emerged, clearly terrified and defensive, striking out blindly. It had no idea we were trying to help.

Poor thing. My heart ached.

It was gently placed into an old pillowcase, and then driven to Uttarahalli lake and released in a safer, quieter space. Far from noisy humans and scared drivers and mid-afternoon rescue missions.

I sent the rescue video to Kumara, proud of what we’d done.

“That’s not the one I saw,” he said. “The one I saw was brown. Big. I think it was a cobra.”

And just like that, the story changed again. The catcher nodded, saying the cobra could’ve been hunting the green vine. Nature, in motion. Predators and prey, crossing our little garden by chance.

I’ve always loved snakes. I write to them—“I love you, snakie,” I say in my head when I see one in books or on screens. But today was different. The presence of a snake wasn’t an idea—it was real, alive, close.

And as much as I love them, my heart did jump. I realised I was helpless in its presence. No matter how soft my affection, we both live with very different strengths. I am human—curious, clumsy, noisy. The snake is agile, instinctive, silent. And I am not trained to meet it in its world.

So yes, best to call for help. Even if I wasn’t sure about the method—repellents and sprays and pillowcases—I have to trust that the intent was rescue, not harm.

We locked up the house. Life returned to pace. IPL buzzed in the background. Dinner was reheated. I called Devika and told her, half-laughing, half-worried, “Come in daylight tomorrow, okay? Just in case our friend is still visiting.”

And now, here I am. Wondering about the brown one. Wondering about the green one. Sending them silent love.

May all snakes be safe.
May we never meet too suddenly.
And may the next time I say “I love you, snakie,” I do it from a safe, respectful distance.

Because love doesn’t mean control.
Sometimes it means letting go, letting wild things be wild.

The Great Hoard Reveal: From Pappa to Me

For the longest time, I’ve had a solid complaint against Pappa.

He hoards.

Old torchlights. Stray sandals. Rusted screws stored in cough syrup bottles. Hotel soaps from the early ‘90s. If there’s a “just in case” item, trust me—he’s got it. Possibly in duplicate. With an extension cord wrapped around it.

Our attic? Overflowing.
The garage? Less ‘garage,’ more ‘museum of miscellaneous’.
Me? I was the designated eye-roller and drama queen.

“He needs help,” I’d say. “He can’t throw anything away!”
I’d moan to my sisters. Rant to my friends. Vent to my sweet, ever-patient counsellor.

Then… karma.

One innocent day, I went looking for a pen.

Bag 1 had a pouch with 6 pens and 3 highlighters.
Bag 2 had another pouch.
Then I opened that drawer.
By the time I stopped counting, I had uncovered five bags of stationery: gel pens, brush pens, glitter pens, vintage pencils, wax crayons, novelty erasers, mini staplers, washi tape, correction tape, 14 types of glue, paper clips shaped like butterflies and unicorns...

And that’s when it hit me.

I hoard.

But wait—there’s more.

I also hoard cosmetics.
Not casually. Obsessively.
I have makeup to do ten full faces. Possibly Ravana’s—if he ever needed a glam team.
I have foundation in five undertones. Lipsticks in thirty-seven shades (some identical, but you know they’re not). Glitter I’ve never worn. Nail polish I keep “just to look at.”

Still not done.
I also hoard…

T-shirts.
Soft ones, oversized ones, concert ones, thrifted ones, ones I might wear someday.
And the ultimate kicker?
I have a T-shirt that says: ALL YOU NEED IS LESS.

Let that sink in.
I wear it while sitting on a pile of things I clearly don’t need.
Groan. GROAN.

So I sat down with all this (literally), and told my counsellor. She just smiled. “So… maybe you have a bit more compassion for your dad now?”

Sigh.
Yes.
Fine.
Absolutely.

So here’s what I’m doing. Slowly. Kindly. Without guilt or self-shame.

• I’m sorting my stationery and making teacher kits.

• I’m donating makeup to theatre groups or shelters.

• I’m letting go of T-shirts I haven’t worn in 3 years.

• I’m saving one drawer for joy, not ten.

Because hoarding comes from love. From nostalgia. From hope. From a sense of “what if?”
But giving—giving is love in motion. It says: “I trust this can bring joy elsewhere.”

So here’s to letting go.
Here’s to learning.
Here’s to Pappa.
Here’s to me.
And here’s to Ravana—blessed with ten perfectly contoured faces, wearing a shirt that says All You Need Is Less.

The medicine is going out!

I cannot tell you how hard it is to go outside for shopping. It makes me cry. I am anxious and just want to cry, I want to come back home and hide and cry, I feel the safest inside my house and I know this makes me sound cray.. but I feel so anxious just being out. 

It may feel like I am doing the tasks needed, but I am hurrying - in the purchase, in the rejection, in the moving on from shop to shop. I just want to go from there. They are regular people, but I feel if I stand there they are going to see me, and my anxiety demon inside my head. I need to run. I feel like I will explode, and be uncontrolled. I am happiest inside my house. 

But the medicine is in going out. By myself. 

Oh!