My Dad, The Feminist

It is my father's birthday today (May 17th) and my first, very pungent post about feminism went up on Desicritics.

Last night after I sang a lengthy "Happy Birthday" rendition for him over the phone he very sweetly asked me why my mum received so many honorable mentions in my articles while he didn't. I told him it was because I wrote about feminism. "I'm a feminist too" he answered in all sincerity and I chuckled but it did make me reminisce about how and why my own early opinions of feminism, man-woman relationships and marriage in general, blossomed.

My dad, I suddenly realized, had a lot to do with my own expectations from men. When I tell people that I expect a man to respect my intellect, my social status and not be threatened by it, they shake their heads incredulously. The only reason, I still continue to believe that men like that exist is simply because of my father.

On a rainy afternoon, when I was in kindergarten, my father told me that every person should be able to describe themselves in one word.

"Just one?" I asked, immediately starting to think of all the wonderful things that defined me.

"What word describes you?" I suddenly asked my dad.

"Self-made" he said without missing a beat.

"You made yourself?" I asked in amazement and he smiled nodding.

As I grew older I found out what "self-made" truly meant. At my sixteenth birthday, I told him that I remembered the incident.

"You do, huh?" he asked with a frown, "Then we are going to have to find me a new word to describe me."

"Why?" I asked slightly taken aback.

"Because I might've been self-made before I met your mother, but after that she's had a lot to do with my achievements and success" he said with a smile as we sat back, watching my mother put icing on my birthday cake.

My mother completed her thesis after marriage, while my sister and I were still toddlers. My father would babysit us on days that my mother took her exams. By the time we were in school, my mother was a full professor. I remember the quiet nights in Bombay, when I would get up in the middle of the night, thirsty and walk towards the dim light in the kitchen. From behind a curtain, I could see my mother calling out numbers from marksheets as my dad deftly entered each digit onto the calculator and tallied the totals. I could see how sleepy they both were and yet how much fun they seemed to be having over this little midnight project they had teamed up on. My father could've easily left my mom to tally up her report cards and gone back to sleep so he could be rested before the morning's early shift. But he sat there making jokes to keep her awake and wiping her glasses for her as she yawned widely. For some reason, that scene has stayed with me and sums up the kind of support that a wife expects from her husband.

There were times when my father's effusive pride over my mother's achievements caused my sister and me a great deal of amusement. My mother once directed a play in the college she taught. At the end of the play, when she was called on stage and the audience applauded, my father stood up and clapped, as my sister and I ducked our heads in embarrassment. He was oblivious to our discomfort as he gave her his own singular standing ovation.

The very first time he read my poetry he told me he liked my confessional style.

"You get it from your mom, you know," he told me, "I could never write like her. Her English is amazing..." My sister and I rolled our eyes and giggled while he continued raving about my mother's literary skills heedless to our mirth.

When my mother tried a new recipe, he would have us mete out compliments so she would feel rewarded. He himself never cared much about television but if one of her favorite films was coming on, he would fight us girls relentlessly for the remote control. If she'd had a late night, he would make us breakfast and ask us to be quiet around the house. During our rebellious teen years, my sister and I would get periodic long lectures from him about how we should be appreciative towards her since she does so much for us. On numerous occasions my parents would engage in fiesty debates about political or social issues and we would watch with interest as they exchanged ideas, logic and even some occasional humor. Never did he express offense at my mother having contradicted him in front of friends or relatives. Financial decisions and queries, my dad had made very clear, were to be handled by his beloved "home minister". He raised us two girls with the very ideals and philosophies that he would've imparted, had we been boys. He taught us to have the same strength of character, ambition and determination that he himself had applied to life. All this while, he had a successful career, a business and never seemed threatened by my mother's very distinct individuality.

When friends asked me why I even expected to ever find a man who could be secure, confident, supportive and yet ambitious, I always said that it was because I grew up watching such a man.

I called him up this morning to ask him how he celebrated his birthday and before I hung up, I made my admission.

"Dad, I thought about it", I said, "You really are a feminist".

"Maybe that is the one word that describes me" he answered laughing.