A Feminist’s Subconscious Battle with Roti
Roti is essentially flatbread, right?
No, not really.
When I think of a roti I think of two things. One, a mother: who judiciously makes round, perfect rotis all her life to feed the family, and second: a bizarre image of patriarchy winning a kitchen ping-pong game of equality and hunger.
Being a learning feminist who is trying to unlearn the social conditioning, roti is not just food. It is the labour of love and sacrifice that millions of Indian women made and continue to make. It is an ode to my middle-class values, lessons learnt at a young age that all women must learn how to cook.
When I was a young child, flour was just play dough. Today it is a roti that society says will determine if I’d make a good wife.
They say never say never, and boy, were they right. So, I succumbed to the pandemic, and stepped in the kitchen to make friends with my nemesis.
Don’t get me wrong, I am not one of those people who preach women shouldn’t cook. However, I’m one of those who believe only women shouldn’t cook. Cooking is a life skill that everybody needs to hack. You cannot be the flag-bearer of self-reliance if you cannot feed yourself. Then where does this PTSD for rotis stem from?
Do I unknowingly bear scars of my fierce tribe of women who were confined within the ministry of kitchen?
I belong to a generation of women who were taught to never bow down. Who broke barriers and revolutionized the course of history. They didn’t just bring their chair to the big boys’ table; they made their own goddamn table. Raised by the pack of fearless females, how could I, the aspiring independent woman, become a damsel in distress with a rolling pin in hand.
Roti reminds me of the prime power of patriarchy that oppressed women’s voices. It is a living testament of the excruciating fight my ancestors fought for equality. Roti is the symbol of subservient archetypal female characters that didn’t get a chance to voice their own story.
I don’t fear roti per say. I fear the wrath and all-consuming pull it might have to keep me hostage. What makes roti this hostile then? The age old notion that connects roti with a woman who works tirelessly in the kitchen to feed her family, not because she chose to do so, but because her gender and lack of skill and education implied that she is good enough to only remain in a kitchen, is what makes this piece of bread a dynamite.
So one day humming to a folk song, kneading dough for the said bread of gender role, epiphany struck and I finally deciphered that roti isn’t my mortal enemy. You cannot really hate that delicious carb even if you try.
My problem is the gendered nature of roti. The lack of diversity, constant stereotyping and disrespect I misconstrued with roti. It was always just a bread, but all I saw was the mirror image of millions of women who didn’t live enough, who didn’t dream enough, who weren’t allowed to soar into the sky of uninhibited opportunities. All I saw was years of oppression, subjugation, tragedy and misery.
I don’t feel like a damsel anymore with a rolling pin in hand. I still despise making rotis. I have happily come to the conclusion that my love-hate relationship with this bread isn’t going to resolve anytime soon, however, now it isn’t my foe anymore. It is a skill that allowed me to help my family, it is an art that makes me feel independent and lastly, it isn’t simply a sign of slavery endured by my gender anymore.
