Mister ya Missus? Neither please, leave me alone!

Statutory warning: This is not a post or an essay so much as a rant, and a rant which has brewed a long time.

I have noticed in the last few years how people cannot tell gender any more: from name, from dress, from voice, from personal appearance. The reason it has taken so long to record this rant is that I get irritated by this to the point of incoherence.

Some examples of what I mean:
1. The doorbell rings during courier hours. I turn on all the lights in the doorway area and answer. The package bears my name: Dr. Swarna Rajagopalan. The courier lets me sign for it. And then asks: You are? I say, same person. He asks again: You are? I get annoyed. I shut the door.
It was not important enough to ask me while I took the parcel from him. But now that it has been delivered, he wants to know. Why? Because Dr. cannot be a woman. Because laydiss cannot possibly receive official looking packages.

2. I go to an office for a business transaction. Let's say it is a bank. I fill out a form to open an account or fixed deposit. The entire transaction has been conducted in person, I have furnished identification. There should be no doubt about who or what I am.
A week I get a parcel, delivered by another courier, who does not seek to ascertain my identity at all. I take the package and go in. And then I notice.
The account or the FD is in the name of MR. Swarna Rajagopalan. This has happened with new phone connections, bank certificates, insurance.
A couple of years ago, I stopped accepting letters addressed to MR. Swarna Rajagopalan. This policy applied to bills, and my reasoning was: I am not this person, therefore, the bill does not apply to me.
Moved by my resolve, if not my logic, corrections would hastily be made.

3. A couple of days ago, I got a call from my ISP. They wanted to speak to Mr. Swarna Rajagopalan. I was (go ahead, be proud of me) very calm. I asked if the business could only be transacted with him. The young lady was very accommodating; she would be happy to do business with me. Would I identify myself? I did.
And then the inner teacher took over: why, when she was also a woman, was she reluctant to grant that account-holders could be female? Did she have no pride in her gender? (Oh go on, feel sorry for her, but only if you can feel my pain at being mistaken for a man.)

My first inkling of this social revolution in India was when I was a graduate student. I had presented a paper on South Asian politics at a conference. The nearest Indian consulate wrote to Mr. Swarna Rajagopalan asking for a copy. I did send it, but recorded my objection to the error in a cover letter. I have no reason to assume they read it or cared. I got no apology.

Lest you, the unwitting reader, wonder: some of my best friends are men. I have no intrinsic problem with them. I just find it deeply offensive to be mistaken for one. I find it offensive because of the underlying assumption that only men could belong in the public sphere of paper-writing, account-opening, parcel-receiving and buying or selling. As a woman, even, the only way my activities are possible is if by some magic, you can commit a speech act and turn me into a man.

I cannot tell if this is worse or better than being taken for a married woman. Again, for the record, I have nothing against marriage or married people. Good for them, I say, and may they be happy for as many lifetimes as they wish! However, I am not Misssusss Swarna. No thank you, I will not miss you, and you may vanish instantly from my sight.

I am so close to my middle-years that they are teetering under the pressure of my closing in on them. But I am not married.
I am a grown-up, and I make decisions about domestic and professional matters. But I am not married.
I am a ladies (nothing in Tamil Nadu is singular). But I am not married.
I am not married. (Can you hear the scream coming on?!)
I am not married. I do not have a ratty old mister looming somewhere behind me. I do not come with brats attached. I was not stupid enough to get married; just stupid enough to be in an interaction with someone who thinks the only way to show me 'respect' is to marry me off, at least in title.

[SCREAM!] Sorry, needed that release.

I don't know what infuriates me more: being taken for a man or being taken for a married woman.

To you, these may not be huge issues. For me, this is like nails on a blackboard and then some.

I have so many questions about this ridiculous binary: Mister or Misssusss.
1. WHY? (We will return to this later.)
2. What happened to Amma, Didi, Akka, Madam (I cannot spell the Tamil version) or even Aunty? (No, strangely, I have no problem with Aunty!) Hey, give me a few years and I will even take Paati.
3. What is the need to list a telephone number with a Mr. or a Mrs.? Is my name not enough? If you do this, is my friend or colleague supposed to look under M, S or R? (And that is another issue, writing my name as Mrs. R. Swarna, but in the interests of salvaging a working Sunday, I will desist..)
4. If you can indulge in creative social licence and make me a man or a married woman, I ask you, why not: Your highness, Your excellency, Professor, Commander, Captain, Doctor, Alampanah, Bharat Ratna... you get my drift?
5. Finally as promised: WHY?

Last words then: Because of this, I introduce myself to couriers, plumbers, electricians, cab company despatch clerks and other service providers as Doctor Rajagopalan. They deal with me, I pay for the service with a cheque bearing my name, but the fact that I am called 'Dr.' comforts them: I must be a man (or may be assumed to be one: Aswatthama atah kunjarah), so they can serve me well with a clear conscience. You can call it sneaky; I call it payback!