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I Choose To Be Flawed But Unapologetically Myself!

My voice matters to me, my opinions hold my name. I want to be remembered for what I have disobeyed. That I am unapologetically me.

(Every time I write about myself, a part of me is liberated. This is a lot about women who dare to wear imperfections as their most precious attire. This is a tribute to all those women who believe in their womanhood, who believe they are special, beautiful, and powerful with their flaws. Who face humiliation on a daily basis for they are flawed, but they don’t pay their ears to the society that always points fingers at them. Instead, they sing, they dance, they eat, they drink, they cry, they smile, they fall, they rise, living in their own world of sisterhood, for they know their tribe has their back.)

I celebrate myself every day.

Every time I face rejection in the marriage proposal

for wearing this brown skin with me,

I celebrate my womanhood.

Every time I face gender discrimination

at my workplace, in the kitchen, or my house,

I celebrate my womanhood.

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Every time they point their fingers at me

for being fat, black, short,

and not being eligible for marriage

even when I cross the threshold

of the perfect age for getting married,

I celebrate my womanhood.

Every time they ask for a dowry from my father

and I stand up against it,

I celebrate my womanhood.

Every time I hear harsh words

for not being able to give birth to another life,

and every time I leave my partner for the betrayal,

I celebrate my womanhood.

Every time, I feel claustrophobic in this society

that is always busy judging me

for everything I do, I say, and I be,

I celebrate my womanhood.

Every time, I forget to cover my chest

with a dupatta

and people speak to me harsh

for not being a well-mannered girl in front of the world,

I celebrate my womanhood.

Every time, I wear the dress I love,

I adorn myself with black kohl and red lipstick,

and cover my face with a piece of cloth,

within me,

inside that covered cloth and choked breaths,

I celebrate my womanhood.

Every time I speak the truth in front of the abusers,

and slap them, and cut them with my rogue tongue,

I celebrate my womanhood.

Every time, they blame me for my desire for education,

my dreams, my hope, my ambition,

and bury them one by one,

on that lonely night when no one can see me

crying, breaking, shattering,

I, still, celebrate my womanhood.

Every time I am called an unsuccessful daughter,

a reluctant lover,

an unworthy sister,

and a good-for-nothing woman

shamelessly carrying this homebody on the earth,

I celebrate my womanhood.

They tell me that I am too fat to get a handsome groom,

I am too short to find someone tall

Who will protect me from dhoop,

I am too sensitive to adjust to their wild desires,

I am too emotional to fall into tears whenever I cut my fingers,

“Big girls don’t cry”,

They tell me, always.

They tell me that I am too outspoken

to satisfy my elders’ points of view,

I am too conservative to go on a date with my male friends.

I am too ancient to learn the theories and practical

of being a modern wife,

I am too modern to practice their superstitious beliefs.

They tell me that my art

of worship from the heart

but not with hands is

something that is strongly against their reputation,

And this is why, I

should be punished.

They tell me that I am not worthy of anything,

That I am too old for getting married,

for holding a child in my womb,

Because my womb is not that young

to give birth to a healthy child


They tell me that I am not able to see

a new dream

for they have clipped my wings

and I can’t fly,

I am not that beautiful to get someone whom I want,

I can’t cook a meal that’s perfect to serve on their plates,

I can’t feed my family,

I can’t even breastfeed my child,

I can’t fulfill someone’s lustful wishes for the dreadful nights,

I am not that beautiful to find a lover,

and marry him, and settle on time.

But I find my inspiration to be a woman like me

from me, and only me,

to my utter surprise.

I might be right,

I might be wrong,

But I don’t want to be perfect,

For I choose to be flawed.

I am proud of my body,

I am proud of my beauty,

My voice matters to me

My opinions hold my name,

I want to be remembered for what I have disobeyed

Not a girl who agreed with her elders, always.

I embrace my brokenness as the sister of my wholeness,

For they define me fiercely.

And this is how I celebrate my womanhood,

For my womanhood is a blessing to me.

Image source: a still from the film Piku

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About the Author

Swarnali Nath

Swarnali is an Author, Blogger, Wellbeing Researcher, and Singer. She blogs at 'The Blissful Storyteller'. She runs The Peace Stories initiative where she shares stories of healing, recovery, personal winning, and self-discovery. An avid read more...

7 Posts | 6,598 Views

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