“We have to make a schedule,” says Bins. What schedule? “A Fight Schedule,” he says. “Now that we are living in the DecadentWest — ” he always says it that way, as one word

“— like two ants in a matchbox, we will waste too much time arguing.” I say we’ll waste too much time making the schedule. “See?” he says. “Already we are arguing.”

According to Bins, human beings were meant to live in big, noisy groups, where all disputes were settled with fangs and claws. Then evolution happened. Language followed. Brute strength gave way to verbal mediation. And women gained the upper hand. In Bins’ opinion the Rise of Womankind represents the End Of Civilisation As He Would Prefer It.

“But we don’t argue when we’re in Delhi,” I say. “Why should we start here?” He points towards the kitchen. “No cook,” he says. “That’s the problem with the DecadentWest. Too progressive. They believe in the nuclear family here. No domestic helpers as shock absorbers. When two humans live together with no one else to cook and wash and clean the floors, they become unstable. Radioactive. Fissionable.” That’s how nuclear families got their name, he says. They’re always blowing up.

He explains what he means by a Fight Schedule. “We’ll divide the day into four quarters,” he says. “I’ll get the first six hours, starting at six. Then you, then me again, then you’ll get the final shift, from midnight to six am.” That means half of my time is at night, I protest. “Is better that way,” he says, waggling his head. “I will be asleep. You will win easily.” It’s an idiotic idea, I say. “No, no,” he says. “Just see: when it’s my shift, I get to pick the topics for argument. When it’s your turn, you get to pick. We will each get an equal chance.”

“I don’t understand,” I say. “How will a schedule stop us from having arguments?” Because we each get only 15 minutes, he says with an air of triumph. The loser has to make tea. “Who decides the winner?” I ask. He says the person whose shift it is. “I would be crazy to accept such a deal,” I say. All women are crazy, he says, making that pok-pok-pok gesture on the side of his skull, like in Asterix comics. And women rule the world. That’s why the world is crazy. Pok-pok-pok.

I have long since stopped responding to his attempts to lure me into a Feminists v/s Other Humans debate. In the first place, I no longer consider myself a feminist, in the second place, it’s a losing battle and in the third place, he fights dirty. For instance, he claims he’s a better feminist than I am because he’s attracted to women, whereas I… prefer men. Haha.

I get up and head for the kitchen. “Where are you going?” he wants to know. “My 15 minutes of argument time aren’t up yet!” To make the tea, I say.

(Manjula Padmanabhan, author and artist writes about her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, US, in this weekly column)

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