Perks of being a homebody
While growing up in Calcutta in the 90s, I observed that children were broadly classified into two categories by the parents. The first was Uron-chondi — the volatile, energetic child, almost a borderline ‘enfant terrible’ who never sits quietly in one place. The other was Ghor-kuno or a homebody who finds joy in the mundane regularities of house-hold chores. Based on your age during the growing up years, these labels could either add to your pride and self-esteem or be a reason for embarrassment.
For instance, girls who grew up with the label of being a homebody would be easier to pitch in front of tuition teachers, visiting relatives and eventually to the future in-laws. This guaranteed that the girl has spent enough time learning and perfecting recipes from her mother and aunts, was good at stitching, embroidery, could sing Tagore’s songs without messing up the Rabindrik grammar and so on. Boys, on the other hand, were allowed to be messy, careless, a bit vagabond-like. These lines were pretty well defined, and naturally those who crossed these lines ended up attracting the criticism of everyone around and were termed as misfits. I was one such misfit.
I tried to venture out, play gully-cricket, dribble a football, run the fastest in a bompaat match where boys would hit each other with a hard-plastic ball. I really did try to fit in. In most occasions, I’d return home badly bruised, bullied and broken. Naturally, the confines of home became my playground, my safe zone and I began exploring the joys of household chores. I’d sit and watch my mother chop vegetables in similar shapes; let the frying pan heat up before adding mustard oil so that once the fish is added, it doesn’t stick to the vessel; measuring the amount of water and counting the pressure cooker whistles to ensure the dal was perfectly cooked; squeezing a lemon and sometimes adding a little vinegar if the milk curdled while boiling and then drain it to make some paneer out of it — all of these and more such tips and tricks. Added to this was the sense of accomplishment when after cooking, the countertop was thoroughly cleaned, and the dishes were done. The bones and leftovers would then be given to the golir beral (the cat in the neighbourhood) who’d sit in our courtyard waiting for us to finish.
I also began appreciating the smell of washed linen pretty early in life. Getting the clothes off the laundry line and putting back the pillow covers, folding the bedsheet strategically since it would always be too enormous to manage. My mother noticed these things but never felt that these quirks had to be contained. To see her getting ready was something to look forward to. When she would blow dry her hair, I’d ask her to turn the fan towards me and I’d imitate her. She would always ask for my opinion — which bindi goes well with this saree? Is the strap showing at the back? Can you please push it inside the blouse? I’d help her with the pleats of the saree so that they were neatly arranged. Dad helped in as well if I was unavailable but never took a keen interest in helping Mom decide which bindi to pair with what saree, as much as I did. Like most other Indian middle-class households, there was no escape from this domesticity, and we did our bit sometimes willingly and at times reluctantly.
‘Griha’ in Sanskrit means the house and ‘grihini’ is the one (mostly a woman) who is in charge of it. I grew up understanding the importance of a well-organized house and our role as members of the house, in its upkeep. Therefore, when I moved out of Calcutta and began living on my own, I put in place, bit by bit, all that is necessary to create a functional home. So much so that the feeling of boredom in the confines of a house has always been quite alien to me. I like to go out and socialize with people — but when the interactions become too overwhelming, the reassurance that a clean, well-kept house is waiting for me to get back to, calms my nerves.
I live alone in Bengaluru in a small apartment. There are days when I don’t feel like doing the dishes after a long day of remote working. I delay doing the laundry or changing the bedsheets. Invariably, as the clutter increases, the grihini in me starts to feel restless. I pick up the broom and the mop and one by one, start cleaning up the corners of my anxiety. I then take a good bath, put on a nice shirt and sit with my laptop waiting for the video calls to begin — all with a fresh and decluttered mind. It works for me. It really does.
As the world around me is undergoing this unprecedented lockdown, I wonder whether this is a glimpse of what the closet looks like for everyone who has never experienced it before. A closet may mean different things to different people. For some it is a terrifying place that stifles all forms of freedom. For me, however, in the absence of an inclusive and violence-free space outside, the home and my largely non-judgmental parents became a safe haven when I could groom myself, read, clean and get better at household chores. I would use those days of confinement to heal fully, introspect about my choices and strategize on how to negotiate with this funny world. And then wait for the day when it would become saner and safer outside for me to come out, without a mask, without social distancing.
