Hair under armpits is a metaphor to show how much of a taboo this subject is and how often it is undermined and overshadowed. We often try to shave the hair under our arms, and also sweat and bad smell often accumulates there and we try to cover it with deodorant. So hair under armpits basically refers to something unpleasant that we try to hide in order to appear more appealing. The way we try to hide the blatant sexualising of MILs, DILs, Sisters maids etc
My grandmother and my mother told us about 'Mohi,' a woman who lived in our village's outskirts. They said that she was a madwoman who brought ignominy to the village. They called her a witch; and was possessed by the evils, she was so beautiful that she wooed girls with her beauty and voice and brainwashed them.
I always wanted to see how witches look like. One afternoon while playing, I excused myself and ran to the outskirts to just have a glance at her. I heard her talk. I waited near her haunted house; never dared to go inside it. Suddenly I heard someone's footsteps. At that moment, I was numb. I saw her walking out wearing a blush pink colour Kurta and white pajama without a dupatta. Her hair was left loose to rest on her shoulder. She talked to some men, I overheard her, and she had the sweetest voice as if the cuckoo sang the sweetest melody. I stood there to have a look at how beautiful she was. She turned around to come back into the house after they left. I saw the village's most beautiful woman; she wore kohl in her eyes, and her lips were the lightest shade of pink. She was dusky and elegant.
It was evening when I returned home. My grandmother asked me where I was, to which I replied, "in the fields, with my friends." She warned me not to stay out for too long. I nodded my head.
I went to help my mother in the kitchen.
I said, "Mother!! What do you think of that witch? Why everyone calls her a witch? Is she powerful?" She said, "I don't know I have not seen her. Everyone here says that she was the only child of her parents, so she was given everything she wanted. This made her greedier, and now she can do anything for it." She warned me to stay away from her; otherwise, I would turn into her.
As a little child, you do what you are warned of. The next day, I went again to her haunted house. I saw the gates were left and saw her sitting with some girls in the garden. Poor girls, they must have been possessed by the witch and are being brainwashed. I wanted to hear her mantras. I went closer to her garden walls. I heard her singing songs, the song of falling in love and falling out of love. I stood there for the whole afternoon listening to her speeches and teachings.
I continued going to her house for months to listen to her mantras. In the course of hearing her, I learned her songs. Her songs were different from what was taught to me from the beginning of my existence. They were songs of strength, belief, happiness, acceptance, and, most importantly, of strong women like Mohi.
I started questioning the difference in opportunities given to me and my brother. I started arguing for considering a woman's perspective in every discussion. I started asking for the necessity to stay in a toxic relationship, the right to fall in love and fall out of love, the right to be empowered. All these questions were answered either by a slap or by a 'no food for the day' policy to make me realize that I should think before I speak.
One fine day, I went to her house, but I walked inside the gate this time. I wanted to listen to Mohi's side of the story. She greeted me with a smile; her smile showed her happiness. I was fearful, so I stuttered while shooting my first question at her, " Why, umm, why they call you a, a, umm, a witch? Do you, you, brainwash girls?"
Mohi smiled and said, " Do I look like a witch?" To which I answered in negative.
She said, " You answered your question."
I asked her why she lived alone. She told me the song of falling in love and falling out of love and accepting it for her happiness. We talked for hours, and while leaving, She held my hand. I was frightened. She said, " Never let anyone decide what is wrong for you and what is right. Do what feels right, even if it turns out to be wrong and you are judged for it. You would still have an experience of what not to do. You have hidden wings; you can fly." She left my hand; I turned back and hugged her with teary eyes.I never felt so strong. She whispered in my ears, "Everyone fears a strong woman."
I reached home in the evening, and my grandmother asked me the same question, "Where were you?Haven't I told you to return home soon."
I replied, " I was with Mohi."
It's been 5 years now. I am what my mother feared the most, " the second Mohi, THE WITCH." I live far away from her, giving life to a few more 'Mohi.'
Walking down the high roads , all drenched in singing metaphors , she walks hand-in-hand with the words, that are already forgotten by the world, running her hands through the paint brushes, on the roadside shop , stops to the one with golden motifs, her polychrome eyes now search for colours, she kisses the rainbow paints , and takes blacks too, because she knows the dark sings more beautiful elegies, intoxicated in the lyrics, she returns to her cottage home, places the goods and chattels on the wooden floor , sipping her scorched coffee , she lays out a flawless canvas, stroking the bristles of the glossed brush, she thinks of a way to stain the white, winds are now smiling, swirling hard, but outside her window is warm, Dusk is round the corner , the sun bids farewell and the sky turns brown, her foundling hands tickles the canvas, as she applies on it , colours, one by one , in a bubble where she resides, she paints herself in poetries ,unsung.
________________________________________ Tell me it makes sense;_;
Thankyou WN. I am grateful ♡´･ᴗ･`♡ (4th) 24.01.2021 #ayana_wn