I woke up to screaming adverts and news stories in the papers this morning about the many facets, and the many faces, of Indian women; how important they are to our lives, and the national economy; how it is our duty to respect them.

It felt good, though a little heady: a little patronising, are we being?

Reaching office, I logged on to facebook, where a woman friend — a former colleague — put up a post saying there’s no need for a special women’s day; just treat women as human beings on other days as well. That will do the trick.

Sobering thought. It felt good, though a little scary: what happens tomorrow, and the day after that? Can I remain just as gender neutral as I think I am today?

Can I be perceptive, not ‘sensitive’ (I rarely am, and neither am I expected to be sensitive to men)?

Can I look a woman in the eye and nod, if I agree to what she is saying; say no, if I don’t; and even get into an argument if I think she is wrong — without being called, damn, insensitive? (I do all three with men).

Can I keep mocking the word ‘respect’ with just as much disrespect and carry on (I rarely go out of my way and show ‘respect’ to men)?

Can I keep my life free of a bagful of clichés and not ‘salute’ the women who make our ‘life worth living’, as a commercial for a bank on one of the newspaper front pages put it (because I do not usually go out and start saluting men)?

Can I carry on normally and not feel overtly elated/humbled listening to all-women FM stations, watching all-women-anchored TV channels or flying aircraft operated by all-women crew (ad, ad, news item, respectively)? (Because I rarely feel elated/humbled when all three are done by either men or mixed crew).

Chances are, I cannot. And for reasons more to do with political correctness in a politically correct, polite society than for real comprehension that at the core of the issue is not respect or the urge to salute or a lack of those, but feeling the feeling. And doing that every day of the life — despite the irritants and moments of disbelief, doubt and scepticism.

So I will go back to that first line and rewrite it. I woke up to a mad house: I couldn’t enjoy my tea and cigarette properly and in peace; I couldn’t read the papers properly (let the editor not read this); I couldn’t have a proper conversation. The kid was up; the wife was busy making her sit on the potty; the maid came and quit; the wife had to roll up her sleeves to do all the work (and that’s a humungous amount, trust me) before leaving for office; the mother-in-law kept running after the kid trying to feed it even as she contemplated taking care of her alone, as the latter crawled all over the place. And I left.

I do not feel overtly guilty (though a little is permissible, I guess), and neither do I feel an explicit urge to salute the three women mentioned here (though a little is permissible, I guess). Not because I take them for granted. But because I think I try to understand the situation and, therefore, will not shy away from pitching in, as they would, rightly, expect me to.

They are me, and I am them. And self-respect is always a bit of a humbug.

So let me change the second sentence as well: it feels good, because I am not being patronising.