{"id":5101,"date":"2016-03-31T08:29:14","date_gmt":"2016-03-31T02:59:14","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/13.201.39.237\/?p=5101"},"modified":"2016-03-31T08:29:14","modified_gmt":"2016-03-31T02:59:14","slug":"millennial-women-refuse-to-enter-the-kitchen-patriarchy-traditions","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/13.207.105.184\/?p=5101","title":{"rendered":"Why Many Young Women Refuse to Enter the Kitchen"},"content":{"rendered":"\n\u00a0\n

\n\nT<\/span>\n\n<\/div>\nhere\u2019s a story my mother<\/span><\/a> likes to repeat as a comeback \u2013 sometimes, in anger, and other times, as a sincere documentation of her bravery \u2013 every time my father and her have an argument. It goes like this: As a young newly-wed, even when my mother was running a high fever that rendered her almost immobile, she had no time to rest. Instead, she was ordered to the kitchen by her mother-in-law. In that state, she \u2013 the youngest daughter-in-law \u2013 was tasked with making a three-course lunch for everyone in the house, that included an array of aunts, uncles, and their children, besides the immediate family. My mother was 25 at the time. Today, she is touching 50. She might not go through life according to the demands of my grandmother anymore but even now, so much of my mother\u2019s emotional labour revolves predominantly around cooking. My mother has spent, what seems like, an entire lifetime inside the kitchen. It\u2019s why I seem to have spent the better part of my life running away from it.<\/span>\n\nGrowing up, I\u2019ve heard her recount this story on more than one occasion. It takes a life of its own with every recollection: Some days, she focuses on the endless list of items that she ended up cooking for <\/span>lunch<\/span><\/a> that afternoon, and on other days, she dedicates a generous amount of time to eke out the sweat-inducing stuffiness of the kitchen that held her prisoner for over three hours. But even if she hadn\u2019t laced this story with excruciating detail, which she invariably does, I would have bought the extent of her helplessness in a heartbeat. I have, after all, witnessed it play out right in front of my eyes, day in and out.\u00a0<\/span>\n\nMy mother married into the kind of conservative <\/span>Bengali family<\/span><\/a> that believes in abundance, especially on the lunch table. Every meal at home is expected to be nothing short of a buffet, a family tradition that my mother willingly internalised. It meant that she was always up at 6 am before everyone to ensure that my father would have rows of bowls full of the choicest lentils, chicken, and fish preparations to eat with his rice at 11 am before he headed out for the day. In between, she\u2019d feed my sister and I before we left for school, pack two sets of tiffins, while also tending to my frail grandmother and fixing her breakfast. Cousins visiting from abroad, marriage anniversaries, <\/span>Durga Pujo<\/span><\/a>, and countless birthdays were events that differed in their scope of enjoyment only for the rest of us. But for my mother, all of them meant one thing: they required her to step inside the kitchen and remain ensconced there, cooking for hours, if not days.\u00a0<\/span>\n\nYou see, my mother belonged to a time where the kitchen was a woman\u2019s prison and her call of duty. And like most <\/span>homemakers<\/span><\/a> of her generation, she heeded to that duty without any resistance, effectively living a life that could be counted out by the endless meals she has been preparing. But the generation of women that I belong to, are bound by no such mandates. We\u2019re women who\u2019ve grown up looking at the kitchen, not so much as a refuge, but as a blackhole of sorts, one that has robbed the identity of all our mothers and aunts. Regarding the kitchen with suspicion \u2013 as the other \u2013 was the first lesson all of us learnt from their lives. And choosing to not have a relationship with cooking, almost felt like the only way to protest.\u00a0<\/span>\n

The kitchen is after all, the never-ending marriage a woman is expected to weather.<\/blockquote>\nIt didn\u2019t take a lot for me to look at the kitchen with disdain and distance myself from it. It is after all, the never-ending marriage every woman is expected to weather, from the minute they are born. But whenever I think of the kitchen, I think of my mother\u2019s wasted potential \u2013 I think of all the things that she could have been, had she not remained stuck in there. I mourn the things she had no idea that she was and has been giving up the moment she decided to will away her life inside that cramped room. At 26, I have done anything and everything to guarantee that I don\u2019t end up being the proverbial woman in the kitchen, for whom it is the first room in the house to enter in the morning and the last room to walk out of, at the end of a day. I\u2019m single, <\/span>unmarried<\/span><\/a>, and don\u2019t have a family to cook for. In the past eight years that I have lived away from home, much of my daily life as an adult has been marked with an abject unwillingness to acquaint myself with the idea of the kitchen as an indispensable part of my life. And like most women my age, I have even looked at my lack of cooking skills as a badge of pride.\u00a0<\/span>\n\nBut the trouble is that, in being convinced that I should resist the kitchen, I have also stripped myself off the chance to find out whether I could have a relationship with cooking \u2013 on my own terms. To realise that the simple pleasures of making a meal for myself should not be marked by guilt. That I can get excited to try out a new ramen recipe on a <\/span>Sunday afternoon<\/span><\/a> without worrying about whether I am giving in to the socially held idea of where a woman truly belongs. That I don\u2019t have to punish myself by training myself to be indifferent.<\/span>\n\nNone of this made more sense than last week, when I suddenly fell ill; a high fever meant that I was confined to my house for a good three days. During that period, I spent my afternoons in the room I expected the least: the kitchen. I was tweaking recipes, rustling up my comfort food with an abandon that comes only when you\u2019re having fun while trying out something new, but which somehow feels like routine. Initially, I told myself that I was just in it to pass time, that I wasn\u2019t becoming the cliche I swore to never become: a seemingly independent, <\/span>millennial<\/span><\/a> woman who gets swayed by the kitchen. But by the second dish, it was hard to keep up the pretense. Until last week, I hadn\u2019t entertained or admitted, even to myself, that I might have inherited my mother\u2019s pedantic love for cooking.<\/span>\n\nI suppose, much of my hesitation with being someone who doesn\u2019t just take a liking to cooking but also announces it, has been the fact that the kitchen continues to be built up as that space where a woman lives for others. Our society, even after applying a progressive 2019 filter reiterates the stereotypes of a woman being in a kitchen in slyly sexist and insidious ways. Irrespective of her agency, a woman who likes being in the kitchen, is still joked about in hushed whispers as someone devoid of <\/span>ambition<\/span><\/a>. Even in 2019, no one wants to know that woman, much less be that woman. If the burdens of <\/span>patriarchy<\/span><\/a> that our mothers quietly shouldered, could make me hate the kitchen, is it also not behind me taking a liking for cooking? And is it even possible for them to be two separate things?<\/span>\n\nIn this tussle between fighting against what the kitchen represents and wholeheartedly embracing the joys of cooking, what often got lost in translation for me is that the kitchen, without the assumptions it invariably carries, can also be such a deeply nourishing space. It\u2019s also that room where a woman gets to be in control. It\u2019s possible for it to be a refuge; that space where a woman finally goes against years of conditioning and refuses to put everyone else before her own self; where what she makes is dictated only by her own taste buds and <\/span>cravings<\/span><\/a>. Lately, I find myself thinking about another story my mother admitted to me once: That the kitchen was also where she fell in love with cooking. She described it as \u201cthe act of giving life to her appetite\u201d. Someday, maybe I will too.<\/span>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

My mother belonged to a time where the kitchen was a woman\u2019s prison and her call of duty. She has spent, what seems like, an entire lifetime inside the kitchen. It\u2019s why I seem to have spent the better part of my life running away from it. Choosing to not have a relationship with cooking, almost felt like the only way to protest.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":103,"featured_media":5102,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[107],"tags":[6293,7975,1912,5256,5539,735],"class_list":["post-5101","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-pov","tag-cooking","tag-kitchen","tag-millennial","tag-patriarchy","tag-traditions","tag-women"],"yoast_head":"\nWhy Many Young Women Refuse to Enter the Kitchen<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"My mother belonged to a time where the kitchen was a woman\u2019s prison and her call of duty. She has spent, what seems like, an entire lifetime inside the kitchen. It\u2019s why I seem to have spent the better part of my life running away from it. 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