I always believed that I would never write about it, we never make an issue out of sleeping, eating, or even breathing, then why this one? But then, events are the outcomes of events and, if not me, then who? When I was little, my grandmother asked me not to enter places that are holy (I guess it meant the entire world then), my privilege to eat what I want and play was denied for certain days. I never knew why, but I trusted her, and more than that, I loved her. I sometimes heard her saying that it was inauspicious of me; maybe in her heart, she might have thought it as disgusting too, but she never imparted such things to the innocent kid in me. . . The next memory I have of her on this is of consoling me one day, as I clutched her arms and lap so tightly, motionless, unconscious, hoping and pushing it out of myself; she held me when even touching me was unholy for her. That day I learnt, that love and affection does change people- their beliefs, their actions, their behaviour, and even their heart. Growing up, I never liked women. I never wanted to be one. I thought that they were the creatures responsible for fights, were always after money, and even wars. I clung to these tales heard now and then,and gulped them as The Gita as I grow. Consequential of my despise, I always wished for a testicle, because I loathed the mere idea of something having a home inside me, and how an indifferent girl like me was supposed to mother, or even house something I resent. . . Time flies. And so do you and your beliefs. Pain is always what makes you strong-be it physical, emotional, mental or spiritual. It overpowers the strongest human emotion- fear. It only demands comprehension and acceptance to be acknowledged. The greatest pain you endure the whole of your life is the reason why you are stronger than all those boasting chests. Males might be worshipped for their powers, their divine weapons, and their good deeds too, but it’s only a female that houses all the worship for how selfless she can be, with a person, or even with a thing. She doesn’t asks for a whole world to live in or a man to complete her, she is the one who birthes half of the society, and raises the other. . . There are no words for the gratitude I have just because I was not a part of a world, where you are mocked for the stains on your dress and scars on your face. Where you get a novena of ‘divinity’ and of ‘shakti’ twice a year and absolute disgust and untouchability for the rest. Where you conceal your pain and show-off your bodies. Where your moans disguise themselves as false laughter. I was fortunate. But, she was not.
She, whom you rejected to be a part of all the simple pleasures- of playing, of doing, of learning and even of being. She who didn’t ask to be worshipped as the divine for your nine days feast and show. She didn’t understand a damn thing out of it. All she ever wanted was a little embrace; that one single day, a hope to cling to. She wanted for you to hold her hands so that she does not have to fear anyone, to tell her that she was not alone in this; that she is as pious and as human as she used to be. That one day, she craved for your service- and you denied.