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Published
in Gulf News, October 24, 2006
House husbands
unite!
She
pitched
her voice loud enough for everybody to hear, feigned embarrassment
at having to ask, and said, "So what's it like being a house
husband?" I cringed, but not for myself. I was embarrassed
for her.
There
was a time when being a poor writer and living off a benevolent
patron was a good - if not noble - thing. These days it's considered
pretty useless, especially if the writer's patron is his wife. Far
too many people, even in Bangalore, believe it is essential that
a husband be in a "regular job" and be the prime earner
in the house.
I say
'even in Bangalore' because if the wife is in the IT industry and
the husband isn't, it can be difficult to play catch up on the salary
front. If I was to chauvinistically insist I earn more than my wife
does, I'd probably have to work in four newspapers at the same time.
My
freelance work earns enough to cover the grocery, utility and entertainment
bills, but gives me time to do my own writing. The loud questioner
seems to have a problem with this though. Every time I meet her
I am served a jibe, a pointed comment or a leading question, often
followed by that pathetic cover up for social needling: "I
was only joking."
Sadly,
she is not a conservative grand-aunt, a worried mother-in-law or
a tipsy uncle. She is near my age, from my generation; somebody
who should be on my side.
It's
not the content of her questions that bothers me. I'm inordinately
proud of being able to say I have a hot meal ready for my wife when
she comes home from work. I'm even more proud of my wife, who may
be paid well, but earns every paisa of it in sweat and tears. No,
what bothers me about these queries is that they are asked with
such shrewd-eyed relish. What drives a person to want to make her
own family members squirm?
The
trouble is, any success I have as a writer (short of earning £50,000
at a prestigious prize ceremony) won't make a bit of difference.
I'll still be the guy who sits at home while his wife goes to work.
This thinking is strange to me because I've grown up with that band
of urban gypsies - the theatre community. I've always been surrounded
by people who either don't hold regular jobs, or who do so with
reluctance; people who are embarrassed by displays of wealth and
who value the time and space for art over the earning of money and
the building of a career. Theatre people are more likely to judge
you badly for driving an expensive car than for driving a cheap
one. Reverse snobbery is no better than snobbery, but at least I
can relate to it.
And
while theatre people are often an insecure bunch, they radiate a
life contentment that I'm yet to see on the faces of my double-incomed
corporate compadres. Both my wife and I believe our relationship
is much stronger because one of us has the time to keep the focus
inwards. Two fat salaries and no time to slow down make it terrifyingly
easy to focus on nothing but possessions, holidays to Europe and
agonising over how the poor relatives managed to buy their expensive
car.
But
what is it like being a house husband? For a start, "sitting
at home and writing" is anything but easy. Even so, my answer
to my mocking relative was heartfelt: it's the best job in the world.
Everybody should try it some time.
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