Ask Panchali

Look, it's really very simple. No one man can satisfy a woman. Take Draupadi. Each of her five husbands possessed a distinct attribute. Righteous Yudhishtira had the wisdom, hunter Arjuna the prowess, lusty Bhima the good body. The beautiful twins Nakula and Sahadev, well, they clocked in on the aesthetics.

I couldn't believe my ears. The dignified Tamilian lady on the ripe side of 50 and I were discussing an article I was writing on infidelity. She was all for a little infidelity on the side for the contemporary Indian woman. Where could today's woman possibly find a five-in-one man, she argued? A man with brains, brawn and a liberated feminine side just didn't exist. One who could fix the fuse and discuss Foucault—and, yes, be a good lover and an even better father. A man who could negotiate the outside world as well as read her innermost thoughts—and give her breakfast in bed. The Raymond's perfect man was merely a figment of the imagination of a canny advertising executive somewhere. A band of brothers was more to the point. Come to think of it, even Draupadi's mother-in-law, Kunti, had her five sons from five different men, gods actually. That would be six celestial trysts if you include the sun god who fathered Karna.

Today's Indian woman wants it all. However, the right man (or men) is just one among her myriad desires. And chances are that rather than just limiting herself to making her man the personification of her desires, she'd like to embody them herself. In other words, 'become' her imaginary, idealised man by acquiring all the attributes she wanted in him.

What do women want? The tease-question has worn many a pencil down, given many a grey hair to the marketing brigade. Men wooing women, or trying to retain/contain them, still don't know the answer. But I feel women themselves are finally beginning to find it. She may spend long moments staring into the mirror but she isn't just asking who's the fairest of them all. She's assessing herself, as an individual shorn of slapped-on identities.

Just as you disrobe before stepping on to the weighing machine to get the right weight, a woman gazing into the mirror discards her roles—of dutiful daughter, wife and mother-employee too—to see her true self. Here's looking at me, kid—is what she's muttering to herself. And it's (to plagiarise some more from Casablanca) the beginning of a beautiful affair with the self.

Romancing the self takes many forms, but what women seem to want most (once the roti, kapda and makaan aspects are taken care of) is to be able to express themselves: let their inner child, inner woman, inner being, whatever out. Some dance or sing, others write or paint. Some follow their sexual fantasies, taking on younger lovers or more imaginative ones. Others try to make the world a better place, do something for the less fortunate.

The new avatars of the zenana allow all bottled up emotions a measure of release. And then there are the emerging men-free zones, beyond the ubiquitous kitty parties. They now include feet-up sessions, hanging out in the evenings (leaving hearth in husband's care) and small groups of women travelling together, for weekends, or longer.

A large number are also going down the spiritual path. Just as those in pursuit of the body beautiful today take on personal trainers, many women are taking on personal spiritual trainers. Today's woman wants satisfaction at many levels: from mere whims to deeper emotional and spiritual needs.

For all this, what she needs the most is the time-out to do so—even if she has to steal it. A woman's day needs 48 hours: 24 hours just keeps her running to stay in the same place, keeping the home fires burning, her husband and offspring on track and her employers or employees in their rightful orbits. Perhaps what she really wants is to find a comfortable position, between life according to epics and tradition and the me-too kind of feminism that knocks the private world of domesticity and motherhood.