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Even as she garners expertise in a variety of fields, a woman is often judged for her prowess as a homemaker alone.
Even as she garners expertise in a variety of fields, a woman is often judged for her prowess as a homemaker – while her male counterpart easily escapes being marked for his role as a partner or parent.
It is indeed sad that the yellow stains on his shirt are enough to pull down her expertise as a group leader, a sportsperson, a technician, a teacher or simply a human being. To all those women who have been let down for stained shirts and more……
There were those yellow stains on his shirt She couldn’t get them away The detergent didn’t help much She tried anyway.
They saw the yellow stains Nothing could be worse His honour was at stake Couldn’t she have rubbed enough?
Those yellow stains would stay As long as she chose her ways With life invested in office files Blotches would forever stay.
Yellow stains are irresponsible They exhibit promiscuous ways Those appraisals hardly mean a thing Until you get those stains away!
And so they hang the yellow stains On the right-most shelf with the appreciation card So the next time you walk into her house You don’t miss The Yellow Stains.
First published at author’s blog.
Top image is from a collection of old sexist ads, via this article.
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We are conditioned to normalise domestic violence out of fear of abandonment. Thinking that 'trauma bonding' is better than no bonding holds us back from speaking up!
(Trigger Warning: This post may be triggering for survivors of domestic violence. This post has been published especially to honour the International Day For The Elimination of Violence Against Women.)
Everyone said my perfect husband was like Lord Ram…. but this is how he took unfair advantage of my tolerance!
My grandmother was very fond of my husband whose name is synonymous with Lord Ram’s name. Every call she made to my husband started with the bhajan “Aaj sab mil mangal gao, Awadh mai, raam aye hain“. (Hail everyone, sing praises, Lord Ram has come in the kingdom of Awadh.) It was a mandatory welcome song whenever she met him or even spoke to him on the phone. Yes, his attributes were like that of Lord Ram. His attitude, chivalry, persona, fair skin, smile, height, physique and charm illustrate the perfect image of Lord Ram.
He was a generous man but she hardly knew much about the investments or their financial health. A couple of times, she had asked him and he had been vague. Now when she thought about it...
He was a generous man but she hardly knew much about the investments or their financial health. A couple of times, she had asked him and he had been vague. Now when she thought about it…
The Muse of the Month is a monthly writing contest organised by Women’s Web, bringing you original fiction inspired by women.
Chandrika R. Krishnan is one of the winners for the November 2021 Muse of the Month, and wins a Rs 750 Amazon voucher from Women’s Web. The juror for this month, Anuradha Kumar commented, “This introspective, quiet, story with its depiction of the relationship between two relatively older people is quite impressive. A lifetime spent together can bring familiarity and still allow for many mysteries and secrets. Also, the structure of the story, shifting from an external perspective to an internal monologue is well-done.”
A woman faces a lifetime of an abusive marriage. Or does she? Find out in this gripping short story.
A morose emptiness was spreading over her. The red and black stains were staring right back. She was trying to gather all the fractured things that were scattered in her living room when the blackness gathered around her and she sat down.
The couch creaked a tad bit louder than otherwise. Everything at her place was noisy except her. The fan never worked the way it should. It groaned more these days. She hadn’t heard her own voice for the longest time. It had always been a whisper – whether to the whimpering baby in the next room or to the occasional dog that gathered courage enough to venture near her verandah.
A pad and a bra change the equation of your life and you wonder if growing up is such a big embarrassment, a sinuous trail beyond your capacity to traverse, a virus that gnaws at your childhood.
She hands me a cloth, folded in several layers, from an old bed sheet I remember we used for the family king size bed. That was when we stayed in junior officers service quarters in Durgapur- the steel city of eastern India. It had faded blue peacock patterns in the middle and catalpa leaves around the border. The blue would soon turn red, blood red.
“Put it” she pauses as if she does not recognize me anymore and completes ‘there’. I evade her eyes, my mind clammy just like the red molasses trickling below. Hesitantly I say, ’This?’ and take my first pad.