I remember visiting the Ahilyabai Holkar Wada in Indore with my family when I was about sixteen or seventeen. The house stood beside a river that flowed through its backyard, with the kitchen located toward the rear. All the utensils and kitchenware had been carefully preserved and displayed.

Among them, however, was something that felt strangely out of place, a set of painjaan or payal: a pair of silver anklets with a large ghungroo attached to the clasp. Seeing an ornament traditionally worn by women placed alongside cooking vessels unsettled me. It felt like a mistake.

Curious and disturbed, I called the tour guide and asked why the anklets were kept in the kitchen with the utensils. His answer made me deeply question my own presence there as a woman. He explained that women in the household were required to wear anklets throughout their married lives, from the moment they entered their marital home. These anklets were removed only if a woman was widowed.

In a huge  wada such as this, the men would trace a woman’s movement by the sound of the ghungroo. The guide gave an example: if the men were engaged in financial discussions or important matters and heard the anklets approaching, perhaps as a woman entered the room to serve refreshments, they would immediately pause the conversation. Only after she left, and the sound faded, would they resume.

It was startling to learn that such a practice existed in the home of a woman remembered as a great warrior and ruler. The guide added that after Ahilyabai Holkar was crowned queen, many of these rigid practices within the royal household gradually diminished. Women came to be regarded almost as equals to men ,perhaps because, at its anchor, stood a woman herself

I have watched my ajoba stand in the kitchen beside my ajji every single day after his retirement, not out of obligation, but with quiet ease. There were days when ajji settled comfortably in front of the television, while ajoba wiped down the kitchen counter or neatly arranged the utensils after washing them. And no, my grandparents did not have a love marriage. Yet, what existed between them was a partnership so natural that it never needed explanation.

Ever since I was a child, I cannot recall a single space in my home that belonged exclusively to either men or women. The idea of home, for me, was never rigid or compartmentalized. It was fluid its shared, negotiated, lived in together. Recently, when we moved into a larger home , I found myself unconsciously tracing the movements of my mother, my sister, and myself through its spaces. Our presence flowed just as freely and comfortably as my father’s did.

In what is largely a female-dominated household, my father has made his space not through authority, but through participation. He is the breadwinner of our family, yet his greatest strength lies in my mother. Every morning before leaving for work, he loads the washing machine, folds the laundry with remarkable precision, and places the neatly stacked clothes in their respective rooms, ready for us to put away in the closets. When he returns home and notices that the clothes are still exactly where he left them, he simply picks them up himself and places them inside. There is no expectation, no silent negotiation, just shared responsibility.

My mother is an exceptional cook, someone who truly enjoys the process of preparing food because she believes in the pleasure of eating well. Her meals are often elaborate, layered with care and intention. As a family of four, we make it a point to share our meals together. Whether we sit in quiet, exchange laughter , or even work through the occasional quarrel, gathering around the same table remains a cherished tradition. No matter the mood, dining together is a practice we value deeply and hold close as a family. By the time we finish eating, she is exhausted. Without any discussion or hesitation, my father steps in to clean the kitchen counters—just as his own father once did. These acts repeat themselves quietly across generations, forming a lineage of equality that feels deeply rooted and instinctive

.Having only recently moved into a new space, the absence of furniture has in no way hindered our movement or togetherness. The invisible umbilical cord that binds the four of us continues to form natural nodes of connection throughout the home, meeting on the deck over morning tea, running to the master bedroom for sessions of family gossip, gathering in the library to  plan future travels, and coming together each evening in the temple room for prayer.For now, we engage very little with furniture, yet there has not been a single moment when we have failed to create places of meeting, inhabiting the house intuitively.

I recognize my privilege in belonging to a home where boundaries were never erected as barriers to hold me back from entering a space. Living in the house of an architect, every room has been thoughtfully crafted with the comfort of the women in my father’s life at its core. The way I read and understand space has been profoundly shaped by the freedom I have always been granted. I do not fear moving through a space, occupying it, or claiming it as my own. That confidence, along with the freedom to think independently, is something my parents have carefully nurtured in me, and it continues to guide the way I exist in the world.