Fish, Power, and Behavioural Economics: A Middle-Class Case Study đ
How dinner table politics, childhood cravings, and working women shaped a middle class family
I was the youngest in my fatherâs extended family. Eighth in the line of cousins. After six older cousin sisters and one older cousin brother, I entered the world as the designated baby of the clan. This wasnât just a rankingâit was a role. A license. A full-blown VIP pass.
And I used it. Shamelessly.
Especially to crash every secret meeting my mother and aunts held. Picture this: three women in a dim living room, whispering fiercely about something important. And then thereâs meâperched on one of their laps, eavesdropping on what I thought were national secrets. I didnât understand half of what was said. But that didnât stop me from listening.
Honestly, thank God I did. Because thatâs the only reason Iâm able to write this today.
đ The House That Economics Built
I grew up in a moderately rich, lower-middle-class family. If that sounds contradictory, itâs because it is. In our home, âmoderate wealthâ meant you got a Hero Honda Splendor and hair oil from Parachute. But also, you knew that the real money would arrive after your mustache did.
It was a time where dinner-table politics werenât just about politicsâthey were behavioural economics in real time. Especially once dadâs only sister got married.
She brought into our home a legend: her husband. My uncle. A man my dad and his two brothers deeply admired. Why? Because he had what every middle-class family worshipped: a good job and a backstory of struggle. He was super smart and could memorize anything under the sun.
My grandparents were in awe of him. And so began an era.
đ˝ The Laws of the Land (Or At Least the Dining Hall)
Ten years later, my mom entered this royal court. And boy, was it a culture shock.
My mom grew up in a tight-knit family of four, where love was measured in fish. Not gold, not hugsâfish. They had it for lunch, dinner, even with evening tea. (Yes, tea. Let that horror sink in.)
She and her sister had a ritual: before dinner, theyâd whisper like co-conspirators about how theyâd devour the fish that night.
âOkay, you peel the tail and take the soft part. Iâll go for the belly side. Blow to cool it. Then take a bite together!â
They romanticized dinner like it was a Michelin-starred event. The smell of frying fish from the kitchen was their siren song. They didnât need poetryâthey had meen varuthathu.
And then my mom got married into our house.
This is when my two senior aunts (aka the in-law gatekeepers) handed her The Rules:
Rule 1: The VIP (my uncle) eats first. Nobody enters the dining area before he sits. And no one touches the center chair.
Rule 2: Children eat next. Because school.
Rule 3: The restâhusbands, parents, and other mortals.
Rule 4: No matter how many people there are, the food quantity? Fixed.
My mom was disoriented. The math didnât math. She wasnât used to this rationalized rationing. But then she heard they were making fish for dinner. Her favorite. She silently clutched onto that hope like it was a winning lottery ticket.
đ Fish Dreams, Crushed
She waited. Smelled the masalas from the kitchen. Watched the cleaning, frying, and prepping like a child staring at a birthday cake.
And then dinner happened.
My VIP uncle walked in, sat on his throne, and was served first. He scooped up half the fish. Like it was his birthright. The rest of the men followedâaggressively, competitivelyâand by the time it reached my mom and aunts, there was barely anything left. A scale here. A tail there.
She was heartbroken. Her childhood fish dreams dissolved into silence and rice water. The room didn't offer sympathyâjust a smile from the aunts that said: Welcome to the family. Weâve all been there.
đ§đ˝ A Toddler, A Tactic
Years later, when my sister was born, my mom developed a genius hack.
Sheâd dress up my sister and send her over to my VIP uncle at mealtimes. My sister would flash those baby eyes, and lo and behold, a piece of fish would float her way.
My mom called it diplomacy. I call it soft power.
And on tougher days, sheâd sneak into her own home just to get a bite of the fish she longed for.
đź The Fish Payback
My mom got married at 18. Had me at 24. But she waited until I turned 3 to go to work.
And the first salary she earned?
She bought fish.
Not for us.
For herself.
No sharing. No rules. No hierarchy. She sat down and feasted. Her own private rebellion, dipped in masala and fried to perfection.
Today, when she and my aunts tell this story, they laugh. But thereâs a quiet pride in it. Because behind the jokes and the fish is a clear point:
Women getting jobs is the most radical stabilizing force in any middle-class family.
𧎠Case Study: Economics of Dignity
In a lot of upper-class or Western homes, you have abstract theories about womenâs empowerment, feminism, equity. But in the Indian middle class, we have⌠data.
Date of marriage.
Year of first salary.
First independent purchase.
Reduction in dependence on in-laws.
Upward mobility of children.
Itâs all there. Like a behavioural economics textbook written with sambar stains.
Middle-class women donât need to prove that independence matters. They live the proof.