Uncles & Eclipses

 

Just as there is light at the end of the tunnel, there is sometimes an eclipse during the brightest night.

From the Beti Bachao campaign slogans painted on city walls to our female athletes outperforming the men, we talk a lot about progress in society. Yet my recent encounters with the quintessential uncles of the middle class have been teaching me that our society is still far from accepting a woman who is independent and has an opinion.

My joy at finally finding a new flat that suited my needs was soon marred by the drama of the move-out process. The landlord—who not only lied that I hadn’t given enough notice but also invented multiple reasons to withhold my deposit—was a case study in arrogance. It wasn’t just the blatant greed and lying that irked me; it was the disrespectful way I was treated and spoken to.

This so-called “ex-army officer” spoke over and down to me the entire time, interrupting every sentence with condescension and irritation that I dared question him. To top it off, he even treated me to displays of extreme patronizing behavior, saying things like, “I kindly request you not to be so arrogant,” simply because I asked for proof of his reasons for keeping my deposit. What liberty these people take—what gives him the right to tell me how to behave? I am a grown woman, and this is a business dealing.

It’s beyond comprehension that he thinks he has the right not only to deny my truth and curb my voice from his position of power, but also to comment on my behavior. I was incensed and infuriated, shaking with rage (perhaps somewhat disproportionately) — so much so that I “ChatGPT-ed” my thoughts into some structure and realized it was a core wound being activated. That feeling of powerlessness—back in school, at the mercy of nasty teachers telling me how to behave in the face of injustice, prejudice, and partiality—had resurfaced.

Not long after, once I moved into the new place, I accidentally parked in the wrong spot. Granted, this is annoying for anyone. I was called to pay a fine and moved my car over. But then the owner of that parking spot called me the next morning. As I began to explain and apologize, he interrupted me—shouting about how I could possibly park in his spot. “By accident,” I replied, trying to explain that I was new and confused the spot. “But what kind of accident is this?” he demanded, interrupting me. Rather confused by this nonsensical question, I decided to move past it. “Okay, but I’ve apologized,” I said. “What kind of apology is this?” he shot back. I pointed out to him that I had already apologised twice, and offered an explanation. I wanted to be a smartass and ask him if he wanted me to go back in time and change things, but alas, he interrupted me again. 

At this point, his voice was rising—and so was my temper. He had even asked the security to hold my car hostage so he could berate me before letting it go, and was furious that they had not. He threatened to go to the police. I am sure the Indian Police Force will be out in full strength knocking down my door soon for this horrendous offence. Incidentally, the air had been let out of my tires, so I asked if he had done it. He denied it, saying he wasn’t in town. Why then was it eating him so much that his spot had been occupied? Eventually, he became so unreasonable that I hung up. I’m still confused about the purpose of that call—and I wonder, would he have spoken that way to a man?

These are the times I feel the pinch of being a single woman in India. The minute I find a partner, I might just depute him to fight these kinds of battles with uncouth characters on my behalf. Healing my core wound or not, I feel disgusted and enraged at the way these pompous, arrogant, mediocre men treat me. It’s clear they’re outraged at the idea of a woman who has an opinion and stands by it. They want me to cower. But I didn’t when I was ten, yelling at a PE teacher who refused to let me compete in the state championships—and I won’t now.

Maybe it’s a broader problem in Indian society: people demand respect and obedience—teachers who haven’t earned it, elders who confuse authority with entitlement. In first grade, when I complained that my desk was uneven and wobbled, making it difficult to write (we had just started on joint alphabets!), my teacher pointed her long, bony finger at me and said, “You must have broken it.”

In fourth grade, when my family—going through a tough financial time—contributed a few ketchup bottles to the school fete, the teacher announced loudly that the richest girl’s father had given something far better, and “look at how little” my parents had sent. In fifth grade, my brother had joined the merchant navy, and we made a trip to Mumbai to see him off on his first voyage. The ship was delayed and we stayed a day longer. On returning to school, the class teacher stated in front of the entire class of 60 students that my parents were “sly and crooked” and they had lied about the number of days I would be out of school - by 1 day. And so it went on.  

By seventh standard, I had developed a healthy distrust and dislike of authority. I also stopped going home in tears after such encounters. Instead, I began standing up for myself—which, of course, made things worse. Teachers now felt justified in “disciplining” me and preaching about good behavior, all while favoring the suck-ups who brought them apples and saris. It was a mess, and I couldn’t wait to escape that oppressive environment.

And somehow, I feel like I’ve landed back in school here in Gujarat. Maybe that’s an exaggeration—and I have to remind myself that I’m not a powerless child anymore. I place my hand on my chest and tell my inner child that her voice won’t be drowned out. Still, can the core wound ever heal when it’s constantly clawed at? And politically incorrect though it is, I have now heard so many “jokes” that Bengali women are reputed to be outspoken / domineering / wearing the pants, etc., I feel newly privileged and entitled to ask whether other communities just have oppressed their women so much over so many centuries, (confining them to frying besan at home!) that they completely lose their marbles at meeting someone like me.

Perhaps I’m being dramatic, considering the evils of the world. Yet I try not to dismiss my own feelings—I try to learn from them, to understand how to deal with such people. I want these misogynistic interactions to stop throwing me off. They distress, upset, and anger me far more than I’d like. I want to rise above them with composure, to think calmly and handle things more effectively, with class that they clearly lack.

A friend told me, “If you roll in the mud with pigs, the pig will enjoy it.” Perhaps the weirdest, yet most appropriate, learning to take away from all this.