Bitter feminists

Being a woman is not that easy.

Yeah, we seem proud.

Yeah, We act feminist.

Hell yeah, We are willing to fight and burn our brassiere and wear some Pink Chaddis.

But way before this happened, and somewhere deep down, we hated being women. I, for one, have time and again, hated being a woman.

I hated being a woman because being born was the first favor that was done to me. The first moment of judgement. (I don't remember it. But I read and watched and learnt. And I know you didn't pat my mother on the back the way you would, if I had a penis.)

I hated it because I was told that I shouldn't laugh too loud at home. That laughing on the road would make me seem too "easy". That I must walk like a woman. That spreading my legs is just such a wrong way to sit. After all, it reflects on my character.

I remember boys in our classes cribbing about how women always studied too much. They were too serious to be fun. I hated that I didn’t have the option to be “fun”, because the education that was a given for you, was a luxury for me. Marriage was destined to be my ultimate goal. And procreation, of course. And when I tried to be fun, I was a slut ,or damaged or an attention whore.

I hated it because the first time you told me about my period, you made sure that I asked no questions. That daddy never saw the "Period Shopping". That no one found out about this dirty secret of mine. That I didn't touch the jar of pickle, or it would rot. That I couldn't pray while I bled and writhed around in pain, because I was too unholy to sit in a Puja. Even the advertisements, splashed across by free media, had blue ink in test tubes, being poured on sanitary napkins. The blood clots, the cramps, the hormones that changed me into a person I didn’t know, were all replaced by a larger need to be able to wear white pants and play games, without letting people know of the filth going on underneath.

I hated being a woman because everything I did (and do), reflects on your definition of my character. I hated it that I could not curse freely. I hated it that you cursed so freely. And you cursed about us. I hated it that your love towards me was determined by the number of people who have touched me. And my character(whatever that means) gets determined by how many people I touched.

I hated it because I got beaten up for talking to the electrician. For that better looking guy writing on my Wall. For the number of my partners being too high. I hated it because I remember you boasting about your number. I hated it because I got beaten up and no one protested. Because your mother thought I had it coming. Because the police thought it was my "over-friendliness".

I hate how easily you call me a slut. And I hate how it makes you a stud.

I hated the possibility of being born in Somalia or any other nation that didn't allow me a clitoris. Pleasure always seemed too luxurious for a woman. I hated wearing a Ghoonghat or doing Purdah, while you walked around in your vest. I hated  looking at that peeking chest hair while I had to get my arms waxed.

I hated it that I never looked as cool as you did, when I made smoke rings. I hated it when your men beat me up outside the club. That I must get a B.A. so they ask for a lesser amount for dowry. My parents paying a man so he would marry me. You never valued that I left my family, my people and came to spend my life in your house. The change I am expected to make, including my name, to validate your proprietorship over me.

I hated being touched and groped. I hated it that I couldn't get you punished for the touching and the groping. That it was okay for you to do so because the sun had already set. I hated it that my "character", the one you defined, decided the validity of that drunk man raping me. Of that sober man raping me. Of that "minor" raping me.

I hate it that you don't understand me. That you dedicate websites and pages and jokes about how inscrutable I am. I hate it that you never see what made me into this.

Everytime I go on a rant like this, I can see those sniggers. Those nods you reserve for “feminists”. And I know you pass me off because you label me a feminist. But over the years, I have learnt to love it. Not because I enjoyed it. Not because you were kind enough to let me live. Because I fought.  And I built a character that is nothing close to your definitions. With my mind and my books and my Malala and my Slut walks. Because I no longer care for what you "character"ise me as. Because I know you wouldn't be this simple and base in your crotch digging, beer burping, masturbating needs, if you were in my place.

If my mere voice makes me a feminist, yeah, fine then, I am a bitter feminist.