Johanna Rabindran

Anyone who’s ever peeled a boiled yam will tell you that this task is highly disagreeable. Boiled yams are positively slimy, unbelievably sticky and leave behind a slippery film on your fingers that takes approximately a litre of liquid soap to wash off. In fact, I believe they’re even worse than tiny garlic pods. 

Now, considering that fried yam is my all-time favourite side dish, it is ironic that it took a world-wide pandemic for me to discover the peculiar irritations of preparing yams. Like in most middle-class families, this unpleasant side of things had previously been left to the household help.

Housework has always been a tricky problem for feminists, and contemporary social distancing has only magnified the issue. Take, for example, the qualitative difference between ‘housework’ and ‘working from home’. 

The average man ‘working from home’ is guaranteed some peace and quiet (‘Shush! Papa’s on the phone!’), maybe a room to himself, from which he can emerge to eat and watch TV. When he does help, he will probably get to choose the best chores (gardening, peeling onions or cooking noodles). Meanwhile, his female counterpart is likely to be burdened with young children, cleaning, cooking, washing up, and probably her own share of office work to boot. Of course, there are families where chores are scrupulously divided and everyone washes their own dishes. Then again, there are families where male members refuse to help at all, even if they’re temporarily unemployed.

With the unprecedented disappearance of maids and the necessity of staying home all day, housework has also claimed more time and attention from students. Most of us are helping with the cleaning, cutting vegetables, and cooking. In my case, this also includes making papad–like rotis (they really are better when they’re crispy!). Still, there are days when I sit behind my laptop from before breakfast to after dinner, plugging away at a last-minute home assignment. On these days, no one asks me to help, and I feel both guilty and grateful.

One way or another, I’ve always been aware of this inevitable trade-off between individual pursuits and making dinner. You can either come home exhausted, peel the yams and collapse into bed, or you can hire a maid who will do it for you. Passing the work down to other women is the easiest way to carve out time for reading, art, music, and yes, writing. I am haunted by the conviction that this is injustice in its most sophisticated form.

So have I learned something from the Covid-19 lock-down? Well, yes and no. My chapati game has improved somewhat, but the other thing, about intersectionality and guilt, that I have always known.