Will changing your attire change the mentality of the society?
She stepped out for her college one good day, As usual, dressed discreetly, all covered from top to toe.. Because even the slightest nudity could mean that she is flaunting it.. Not just flaunting, but could give those ‘hungry people’ a hint of WANTING It. And she, like every other Damn normal girl, could not take that risk. So she wore Indian, followed the societal ethics.
Yet, on her way to college she was CATCALLED.. Hey! sexy chick! Come on! let’s go behind the wall. Her blood boil and curdled with rage..her fist closed, And there you go.. A tight punch with some blood around his nose.. But wait! for the story is not over yet. She shouldn’t have questioned a MAN’S VIRILITY.. She was thrown down, where her dignity sank…sank lower than the ground… She was scared stiff, her blood running cold, she cried, No! My dignity I withhold. She pushed him away somehow and ran..ran like a bat out of hell..
Terrified she was completely, shivering like a leaf, Yet, she took a shower and quietly went to sleep. She tossed and turned whole night but she couldn’t sleep a wink. Oh! How could she? For though she has been catcalled before a million number of times.. Still she is not accustomed to those creepy lines. Her blood still boils up when she is scanned from top to toe with evil eyes.. She is even rated by some on the scale of 10 and 9!.
Surprisingly! She went from playing with her toys to being a toy herself..
she lives a life of both a dumb and a deaf.
But this is not what she deserves.. She like every other damn human being deserves those rights. Right to live with dignity and Pride.. And that freedom to dress for herself and as per her choice.. And those hungry eyes should not mistake it for flaunting it.
For yes, she is not a toy to be played with.. and not even a fascinating artefact to stare at..
Image via Pixabay
read more...
Women's Web is an open platform that publishes a diversity of views, indivisual posts do not necessarily represent the platofrom's views and opinions at all times.
Stay updated with our Weekly Newsletter or Daily Summary - or both!
This strange love story reminds me of Princess Diana when she gave an interview about Prince Charles - "There were three of us in this marriage!”
This love was flawed and broken the way only we humans know how to break things with our ego, pride, insecurity and complexities!
Where do I even begin to tell the story of how deep a love can be, how it transcends time, place and people. Perhaps this is a story about how women are their own worst enemies. Either way it is a story that tells us how frail, fragile and fraught we are as humans and how much we hurt each other.
This love story began when I was two years old. Growing up in India in a culture that wove love stories like Laila Majnu, Heer Ranjha and the epic symbol of love, the Taj Mahal, into the very fabric of our existence, love was always an integral part of our lives.
One such love story was of a boy and a girl who were neighbours. The boy, an athlete, artist and a poet, found his muse in this shy, thoughtful and in her own way poetic girl, who seemed to worship the very ground he walked on. Her face could be found in all the paintings he created, and her name in every poem he wrote. The girl called him Sagar, which means ocean, symbolizing his all-encompassing love for her.
Everything thing was going well; their wedding date was being finalized, till the boy’s older brother who was a doctor in the same little town, got accepted into Stanford Medical School to do his MS.
Earlier my husband would say, 'Arey! What is there in making dal-roti? It's so simple.' After he had to cook everyday when I was ill, he has stopped saying that to me!
“Arey! What is there to do in making dal roti? Put a handful of lentils in the cooker and let it whistle and make two rotis. After all, how long will it take?” A handful of dal (lentils) and two rotis! This is the story of every woman and no one seems to understand.
Some time ago, after a shopping spree, my husband and I entered the house, exhausted. I had just about kept all the bags aside, when my husband said, “I am very hungry, can you make something.”
I looked at my husband in amazement and thought, ‘He had just had food, how did he get hungry again so soon?’
My husband, as if he had read my face, said, “Arey! You know that my stomach is not filled with outside food. Just make dal roti. What is there to do in making dal roti? Put a handful of lentils in the cooker and let it whistle and make two rotis. After all, how long will it take?”
‘Is this the way dal (lentils) and roti are made?’ The thought came to my mind. ‘After all, I also went along and now I am tired too.’ I was also getting angry at myself that after all, I had spoiled the habit of everyone in the house.
And every time she choked with recurring sobs, watching the unwelcome moon, she reminded herself that she would not cry.
Trigger alert: This post contains descriptions of violence that could be disturbing for some readers.
She was five when her mother took out a perfectly polished agate and moonstone encrusted sword from the attic, dusted it and handed it to her.
Her small hands were too soft, and her frame, too petite to even hold the heavy sword without staggering and panting. But her mother did not take it back. How could she? The sword was the first big thing she had lifted as a child, as had her mother and her grandmother. She was the great grand-daughter of a Raani, the brave Raani who fought for her clan with the same moonstone and Agate sword, with her dead husband on the back of her steed and her infant daughter suckling to her breast, tied to her body, with royal purple fabric.
I am sorry –for leaving you so soon, for keeping you away from your father, and for not telling you the truth about the women in our family.
The buzzing of insects competed with the pitter-patter of raindrops on the clay roof tiles. The sandhya-deepam shone brightly in the small pooja room of the house in a tiny Kerala village, where a five year old Vaidehi sat with her grandmother, Janakiamma, listening to stories from the epics.
“Mother Sita blessed Hanuman, with the power to bestow the eight siddhis and nine nidhis,” Janakiamma droned.
“Ammumma, what are those?”