I don’t know what the society has lost but the loss of traditional, religious and moral imperatives made my playmate strong. Scathed by all, she was now renewed into an epitome of liberty. Although she was rejected by the world and tagged as a blasphemist, she did not care but denounced her own identity. Being insanely motivating to Womanhood she faced the challenges and met new people. She tried and understood the very many shades of love and importance of moon in a lover’s life. She made a travelling connection to life and joy and concretely blend herself in audacity of awesomeness. The reinvigoration made her a diehard storm catcher with unkempt hair and careless in style. The fiery mess within her, now can sing lullabies and fly with her arms spread wide. She has evolved through her life.
She stepped into her new home. THEY said, ‘It was the world of joy and you are the angel here’. Conversely, there was none to participate her joy, she was assailed by disappointment, no one was there to endeavor and sustain her in dejection. Then she remembered the words that was whispered to her ears by her mother, ‘however bad the consequences were, she has to abide by her in-laws’. A mixed feelings of anger, disappointment and strange kind of sadness clouded her. Her husband touched her bare back without permission every single night, demanded kiss from her, teared her lips brutally, and squeezed her breast. He tortured her more than he loved her. She groaned out of pain- shouted, wept, yelled. The dogs whined outside, the frogs croaked and the crickets cried. Everything seemed to be strange but nothing beseemed bright. She be mindful and for sake of her mother’s esteem kept her emotions undemonstrated. Her existence each day became an agonizing experience. The modern malice seemed to control her plight and become claustrophobic each passing day. She wanted to shout out loud, fill her heart, breathe fresh air and quench her thirst.
She was thankful to be born again, to be established imperfect, to lose her so call dignity. She set out of her cloned perfection and false dreams and called herself to be Free. Rationality itched her, morality bit like the sting of bee. Her tale bearing tongue and tale-tell eyes told us stories that made me cry bitterly in glee.
Absorbed in thoughts, turning the statement into question, she asked me, if she could change the world, make them see through her own eyes, and question them ‘what exactly was femininity?’ She (the mind) was bred by anxiety, the brutal conqueror within her born out of the oppression in her very own heart. She enquired herself a million times, ‘’Why she felt humiliated and dejected when nobody wanted her on their team, what made her so anxious to know about her own corporeal form and why her taste was different from another ‘she’? ‘’ . I wish I could decipher the comprehension of her melancholic eyes, because she mattered so much to me. I plainly uttered, ‘Two kinds of birds are in same nest, and each one has her share of nature’s plentitude’. She released a smile and that felt joy of relief began to dance inside of me.
Her boulder was more eye-catching, a creature so beautiful and adorable. She edited my personality, wrapped my happiness around me, loyal to me as always,& came to my rescue at times of uncertainty. I could well understand that she capered a little caper inside her, toiled for her all day long and rearranged a smile every time she lost hope. My girlhood friend, who used to be so silent, play upon my cheeks physically and emotionally, is now a grown up lady who don’t sing
songs for herself but sails over a calm emotion on her own.
Faith in progress and fear of materialistic enslavement and bewildering change in outward and inward ways of life set us apart physically. From there, from that place and from that time we were materialized automatically. Traditional values were thrusted upon her, customized and sanctioned by family. She looked happy when the world was holding her up. Conchs blew, her forehead resembled pretty much like the scarlet morning though she kept as quiet as dawn.
One starlit night she walked down the street without a tinge of vermillion, put on boxers and strolled in the dark. The gloom of her inner world connected her with the gloom that was farther from the center of her inside. The savages whistled and made lewd remarks at her. The insecurity terrified her. The authority instructed her. The older generation cursed her. A distinction which makes no difference is that—THEY all questioned marked her ‘femaleness’.
By Nibedita Sen