What’s left in the pot?
A fictitious story of how traditional Matriarchy would function if Patriarchy were eradicated in all aspects.
His bony but strong hands rinse the dishes in the kitchen sink. Tanmay Joshi is a rumpled middle-aged man who, despite his early retirement, is ridiculously well dressed. greying hair, and a quiet laugh that makes the saddest of topics possible to discuss. He stands at the kitchen sink, scrubbing the leftover food from the plate under running water in preparation for the morning breakfast. He sees himself reflected in the large plate with the worn-out piece of soap when the water is poured on the dish. Another grave plot he has yet to pour the cement into, a muddled sense of self. A neurotic man who measures every teaspoon in order to make a perfect cup of tea. Everything is right, but for others.
Three omelettes, with two slices of bread every morning. He goes into the pantry, to find only two eggs left. He pulls out last night’s rice from the refrigerator. The former anthropology professor, suspended in a daydream for the next fifteen minutes, pads around the house watering the plants.
She’d wake up surrounded by her serene responsibilities. A light, intimate movement startled her — she spun around. “Good morning, breakfast’s ready” Mr Joshi smiles at his wife. That is what she wanted and had chosen.
Ms Joshi, a lanky woman in her forties, was attractive. Her smile lines like a demolished ferry at a lake, unbothered. She was the type of woman who would colour code her husband’s ties in order to feel accomplished. Scenting the laundry with lavender, a statement of ownership. She also has a daughter; growing, taking her baths, waking up on time, demanding more complete moments for herself, just like her mother.
The morning newspaper was delivered to the front door; you never know what you’ll find. Whether the general assembly increased the number of male seats in the parliament or of the new developments in the female-focused education system. The majority of the economic news on the current affairs consists of [m]others trying too hard to develop the age-old capitalism practises (as we know it) without understanding the focus on emotion over pragmatism. The pressure on emotion to reveal the truth; fuels the economy. They’re just at the beginning of understanding emotion, politically.
Ms Joshi picks up the newspaper from outside and sits down at the table smiling with hunger. Her 10-year-old daughter emerges with an omelette on a plate and declares that she made it herself today.
“ — but Papa chopped the tomatoes.” the girl says as she sits beside her mother at the table.
Ms Joshi asks her husband to join them at the table for breakfast. He brings his leftover rice and is not questioned about it. Finishing the meal, Ms Joshi dabs her lips on the napkin, stands up with her plate and declares the meal the finest she had. Proceeds to get ready for the day. She works at the same university her husband previously did, she teaches a psychology class 3 days a week, and on Saturdays invigilates students working at the hospitals.
As his wife and daughter both leave, with a half contented sigh, Mr Joshi settles over at his work desk, he pulls out a paper and pen. He’s about to be left alone again and he can no longer stand it. Since his retirement, he turned to writing, an expression. A function. That’s what his father and his father’s father did. Considered a strength in a woman’s world. A cry for belonging in a mans’.
An itch to scratch, a conversation to be started, the paradox of accepting himself as he is, in order to change. He prefers to be objective about the world; conceptualising the world clarifies its meaning for him. The narrative shifts, he is selfless, motherless, and abandoned to reinvent himself alone. In a woman’s world, he dreads the time of day when the house is empty and requires nothing more of him.
