She tends to cut words from the throat of her female counterparts, piercing the dagger straight in the trachea with a smile on her face pretending that the sharp edges won’t hurt much, that the spine won’t make their hopes bleed, that the cold metal won’t freeze their wings of freedom, as if the words when too loud would backfire harming the speaker.
She squirms in her seat when her counterparts rally ahead breaking the transparent glass ceiling, and murmurs- “overachieving bitch”. As if the words won’t penetrate in the already cavitated confidence, as if the bullets of judgements won’t kill the sapling of hopes of achieving heights, as if their fights against biases would turn out to be futile in the long run.
She stares at the cleavage and thighs of her counterparts, showering disgust through her expressions, assaulting them with her “you look like a whore” gestures as if the men weren’t enough to pass comments of hate and dispersing misogyny. As if the subtle skin of thighs and cleavage won’t burn with shame as if the comments when heard won’t choke the throat with pain and remorse, remorse for trusting other women and girls, remorse of never letting go our own creed.
She rants the chants of difference between men and women. She stands by the limitations offered to women disguised as safety, honour and morality only because she couldn’t stand the sight of confident, independent women taking their own decisions, living their own lives, walking alone hopefully in the direction of their dreams. She stands on the cape of her counterparts, hurdling their flights towards self-discovery as if they will learn to survive without choices, as if they will teach themselves how to die daily breathing the air holding no particulates of aspirations, as if they will stop living one day.
She smiles with sarcasm when she sees revolts in the eyes of millennials. She shrugs off the revolution pumping in their hearts to each cell of their flesh, denying their stands just like another wildfire blown out of proportion, as if the heaving of chest against stigma and judgements will make it difficult to let fresh breath in, as if these fights will be short lived too, as if the fire burning on the pyre of pseudo-acceptance provided by society will be subdued too, as if we will pull down our guards against wrong.
She lives in the aunties who pass judgements on the dresses of their paying guests, she lives in the mother who teaches their girls to find support in men, but doesn’t teach them that the real strength and eternal support lies within. She lives in teachers who teach syllabus perfectly, but fail to acknowledge the real struggle a female undergoes. She lives in the friends who might give you company in bunks, but step back when time arrives to take a stand they disappear. She lives grandma’s who narrate stories of their oppression, but never recite stories of the fights by others of their generation. She lives in each one us who doubts on our capabilities, on our hustle, she lives inside us in our self-doubts. She is us.
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