Role reversal

RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE

Back in my school days, there were optional subjects like stitching, cooking, and embroidery for girls and carpentry for boys. Most girls opted for cooking. No teaching happened in the class; the girls were expected to learn to cook from their mothers.

On the day of the final exam, the girls brought exotic dishes from home (prepared by their mothers, of course) for evaluation. Arranged in fancy trays, the dishes were taken to the teachers. There were marks for presentation, taste, nutrition value, and, of course, flattery. On that day, the evaluating teachers didn’t need to carry their lunch to school.

It was unthinkable for boys to opt for cooking as a subject back then. The stereotypical roles that originated at home were carried forward in schools and elsewhere. The kitchen was a woman’s domain. The man’s role was to eat and comment on the food. By the time my two sons started school, these gender-specific subjects were done away with and generic, “unisex” ones like painting, sketching, and music were offered.

Once, I was cooking for a couple who had dropped in. My 10-year-old son came to the kitchen and insisted on making chapatis. Before I could respond, the guest (a man) came to the kitchen and chided my son lovingly, “Are you a girl that you will make chapatis? Go play outside.”

That is when I decided my boys must learn to cook—not just learn, but actually cook. In a household of three men, I didn’t want to be the only cook.

Cut to the present. Today, the roles are reversed. My son, who is in his early twenties and works from home, has spoiled me by bringing frothy coffee with extra froth to my table right before I start writing at 3 pm. He did that for a week, but soon spotted my addiction and taught me how to make good coffee. “Give a man a fish, and you feed him for one day. Teach a man to fish and you feed him for entire life,” he threw my oft-repeated adage back at me.

Left with no other option, I made my own cuppa every afternoon, but it never turned out as good as the one my son made. One afternoon, when I was making coffee for myself, my son asked for a cup for him.

I was reminded of my cookery exam. I followed all the steps: measure the water, warm the milk, and churn it in the mixer as taught by him. I put the tall mug on a fancy tray and carried it to him. He took a sip. I waited impatiently for his response.

“Tell me how many marks I get,” I asked. He took another sip before replying, “Five on 10.” “There’s too much water, and the coffee powder should be less.”

“But I still pass, don’t I?” I persisted.

“You pass, but you’ll have to repeat the exam every day for the next week.”