Our Mothers, The Reluctant Feminists

Social Commentary

Our Mothers, The Reluctant Feminists

Illustration: Akshita Monga

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ne of my earliest memories of my mother is from a sunny summer afternoon. She has a slipper in one hand and a pervert – who has just fondled a girl in the street – in the other. Between swearing at the perv and smacking him with her slipper, she’s yelling for someone to call the cops, while admonishing the crying girl to be brave, and more importantly, stay there until the cops arrived. The gathering crowd merely joins in the chorus of swears and the occasional slap, until finally, a cop comes along, and hauls the whole jingbang away.

My mum, grew up in a family of nine – seven siblings – and never went to college. She put up with an alcoholic father and deadbeat brother, while making sure there were piping-hot meals on the table at the end of the day. My mother is a staunch feminist.

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