Ride & Prejudice
Tropes, Clichés, and Casual Sexism
‘It’s unacceptable. The same thing, every single time.’
The set of her jaw and the edge in her voice made me wonder if I’d been too hasty. I set my spoon down and looked at Simran. Disgust was writ large on her face. I swallowed and offered a meek defence.
‘I did ask if you wanted the last bite.’
‘What?’
‘The tiramisu. I offered you the last bite, and waited for two whole seconds. I followed protocol before eating it, you can’t get mad at me now.’
‘Asking someone if they want the last bite when you’re holding it inches away from your slobbering mouth is not an “offer”. But, no. I’m not talking about the tiramisu.’
I thought her version of events was a tad unfair — and, rather rude — but I got the feeling that this was not the time for argument. Dabbing my lips with a napkin, I instituted inquiries.
‘Well then, what is it?’
‘I was the one who asked for the bill.’
‘Correct.’
‘And yet, the server handed it to you. In every restaurant, it’s the same story. Only the man is deemed capable of paying the bill. It is incredibly annoying.’
‘Ah… I didn’t notice.’
‘Exactly. You never notice these things.’
By then, I was wishing it was the tiramisu that’d upset her. Part of me wanted to protest, to insist I was not unaware of ‘these things’ that she — and other women — encountered every day. But I knew I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.1 Such claims would only reveal the depths of my ignorance. Instead, I asked Simran if she wanted more dessert — ‘No,’ she shot back — and then maintained a cautious silence until we left the restaurant.
There is this comedy routine that is popular with (male) emcees who host sangeet nights at weddings. The sangeet is typically the opening event in a multi-day marriage itinerary. It is a time for fun and festivities — family and friends coming together to celebrate the lucky couple. It makes perfect sense, therefore, for the occasion to be garnished with a humorous take on matrimony.
The routine casts the prospective groom as a tragic hero. The emcee begins by consoling the groom, because the poor soul is about to forsake his independence. Peals of laughter ripple around the banquet room. The emcee is quick to change tack: But the groom is a lucky man! Fortune has smiled upon him and favoured him with a beautiful bride. Such a lovely couple! Cue audience applause. Having procured such a pretty wife, the emcee commands, the groom must never look at another lady. (Perhaps because men are incapable of catching the merest glimpse of a random woman without wanting to divorce their wives.) Audience members are encouraged to chime in and confirm that husbands ought to wear blinkers when they’re outdoors. Many gentlemen titter in agreement.
To be clear, the comedy is not one-sided. In the spirit of equality, the bride too is tasked with certain responsibilities. For instance, while she may harangue the groom to take her shopping — indeed, it is one of the key expectations of her role — she should not pilfer cash from his wallet. More importantly, she must never claim to be a better cook than the groom’s mother. This stricture is greeted with much mirth by a collective of matriarchs. All the while, the emcee wears a satisfied smile — seemingly oblivious to the existence of women who do not cook and can do their own shopping.
The final act in the routine involves some crowd work. Those present are invited to share their views on marriage, to offer their review of the relationship. The words ‘shaadi ka ladoo’ make their inevitable appearance. Some men talk about the terror their wives inspire in them, with not a shred of fear on their faces. Finally, an uncle grins and sums it up: ‘There is no getting around marriage, kids. You’ll have regrets if you do, you’ll have regrets if you don’t.’ This pithy assessment is acknowledged by all to be the last word on the matter. And so, the night comes to a close with the couple basking in the moment, and no doubt convinced that their decision to spend the rest of their lives together will almost certainly prove to be a disaster.
I should confess that for many years I used to find jokes of this ilk quite amusing. The ball-and-chain genre of quips would often draw a chuckle. They were just a bit of banter, after all, not meant to be taken seriously. And yet, there was this sense, a subliminal signal of sorts, that these wisecracks conveyed an essential truth about life and relationships. Jovial, free-spirited bachelors would be brought to heel by their no-nonsense, domineering wives — this, according to the joke book, was just the way of the world.
“Getting married was the last choice you'll ever be making. Wives! Amirite?”
“Every time you talk to your wife, your mind should remember that… ‘This conversation will be recorded for training and quality purposes’.”
“Marriage is a relationship in which one person is always right and the other is the husband!”
I do not remember when this brand of humour lost its appeal. At some point, these gags did, indeed, begin to induce gagging. Getting married was a contributing factor. It is remarkable how treating your spouse as a normal human being, instead of a devious grouch, can help build a healthy relationship. Once you ignore the dictum that marriage is meant to make you miserable, you can actually find a way to enjoy the bloody thing.
I may no longer laugh at wedding-related tropes, but I fear I am guilty of passive complicity. The root cause of this problem is my pathological need to be liked by everyone. If I were to ever meet a serial killer, I would be at pains to make a good impression — holding the door open, being a keen listener, asking pertinent questions about how to get rid of corpses — in the hope that if he were to engage in small talk with his next victim, he would lead with: ‘By the way, do you know Rohan? No? Ah, it’s a shame you’ll never get to meet him. He’s a really nice chap.’
In order to not antagonise anybody, I avoid all manner of difficult conversations. Over the years, I have developed an unerring radar for unpleasantness, and removing myself from such distasteful situations is, for me, the work of a moment. This character flaw renders me incapable of raising my voice or registering any objection when I hear sexist comments — be they uttered by emcees at a sangeet or auto drivers zipping around the streets of Mumbai.
Hailing an auto in Mumbai is a humbling experience. LinkedIn has a surfeit of #autorickshaw #lifelessons posts — of course it has! — but regrettably, they ignore the psychological impact of trying, and failing, to secure an auto ride. No matter how high your self-esteem, an auto driver can always bring it down a few pegs. All you need to do is take your outsized ego to the side of a road and stick your arm out when you see an empty rickshaw.
The most common species of auto-wallahs is the one who responds to your plea with a terse shake of his head and a revolted scrunching of his face, as if the stink of your rotten personality is polluting the entire street. This rejection — not just of your destination, but of your very existence — is swift and ruthless. The reaction may sting, but it is better than what the second category of auto drivers dish out: utter disdain. These individuals do not so much as glance in your direction as they pass by you. You are unworthy of their attention, less than dust beneath their chariot wheels.
The third variety revel in a spot of trickery. They decelerate when you wave them down, locking eyes with you as you indicate the locality you wish to visit. They wear an inscrutable expression and you have to search their demeanour for any sign of consent. Just when you think that the slump of a shoulder is a confirmation, and you shift your weight to board the vehicle, they rev the engine and zoom away — leaving you choking on exhaust fumes and performing a nifty tap dance on the kerb.2
So, when I do have the good fortune of bagging an auto ride, my gratitude and people-pleasing tendencies ensure I’m chummy with the driver. I agree with everything he has to say: his disapproval of courting couples, his politics, and his low opinion of recreational cyclists. The only time I abandoned this policy of appeasement was this instance when I was in an auto stuck behind a slow-moving, erratic car. After honking a few times and failing to get past, my auto driver lost his patience. ‘Must be a woman driving,’ he predicted, swerving to the left to overtake the car from the wrong side. That was all it took.
The stereotype of women being bad drivers is something that never fails to rile me up. As a toddler, I accompanied my mother to her driving lessons. By the time I started school, she was the designated driver in our family. In suburban Kolkata of the mid-1990s, she was a novelty. When she dropped me off, my classmates would often comment on her ‘coolness’, while treating me as proof that the trait was not hereditary. For over three decades, I have watched her drive with competence and poise, and charm police officers in the event of the odd traffic violation. When I hear people criticising women drivers, I take it as a personal affront.
Shrugging off my cloak of decency, I launched into a tirade. I berated the auto driver for his prejudiced beliefs and criticised his narrow-mindedness. I railed against the terrible driving etiquette of men and the unfair cliché that plagues women who take the wheel. I ranted for many minutes until eventually running out of steam.
The look he gave me, when I disembarked, hit me like an arctic wind. It was clear that my lecture had not changed his world view. It was an uneasy feeling for me, this realization that a social interaction had ended with a stranger disliking me. I wondered if our paths would cross again, if he'd recognise me. If so, he would likely mutter an oath when he spotted me on the roadside. He would ignore my windmilling arms and pleading eyes to speed past, perhaps flashing a vicious smile in my direction. And I would be left shaking my head and grumbling: ‘It’s unacceptable. The same thing, every single time.’
Being a devoted follower of Womaning in India has taught me, at the very least, that reading a newsletter is no substitute for lived experience.
I should clarify here that I am all for free choice. Auto drivers should have the right to turn down rides and have no obligation to accept every fare — nobody, for example, should be forced to go to Marol. I just wish they were not so brutal about it.
Beautiful. So many branches, all connected by a clear thread.
About the ordering thing, I hear you, Simran. There is a restaurant here that *refuses* to place the bill with women. The waiters don't even look at the women while placing the bill in front of the man. It is wild. And, because the food there is excellent, I have tried multiple things to see if they change. Zilch.
I guess, at some point, the marriage and driving jokes stop being signs of an unconscious bias and more of a very real pattern of condescension.
Thank you for writing this. I ask for the bill, it is given to my husband who promptly gives it to me I check, I pay and make sure the waiter notices that it is me who decides the tips. But this has been a coming of age thing, there was a time when I expected that the old fashioned way was the best. But it still feels very nice when a man pulls up a chair for me, or holds the door open. Sometimes I do too. 😊