Growing up was a rebellious phase
All those years of learning and unlearning.
Time to understand concepts and accept or deny them.
Where I learned feminism
And shunned it
For first I didn't believe in categories
And second I wasn't ever
A men-hater.
Yet there were obstructions
People trying to pull me down,
Raising their fingers on my character
Forcing me to be stereotypical
Brainwashing me to lay low
And belong to the category defined as female.
I was supposed to be a nurturer, a goddess, anything ideal but what I was.
And all this while I was a rebel
Reacting and repointing the same society
Craving to be just one thing
What I was.
To some point where I just stopped seeking affirmation.
Permissions were no more required
And acceptance was so not my focus.
I was a rebel. I was myself.
I began to just be.
Living the way I wanted
Doing whatever I felt like
While my only parameter was
The inner voice.
My concious.
Long back there was this hysteric phase
Where my body was my enemy
For I envied it
For I was often befriended by people
To reach my body.
I wanted them to connect to my soul, my voice, my thoughts.
All they wanted was my body.
I hated my body then.
I was a rebel then.
More men tried to touch it
More I disassociated with it.
Only to realize
It's just a body.
But it is mine.
So I experimented
And I set it free - my body.
And I realized
It's no big deal.
No point holding, wrapping, imprisoning my body
When the fault is in society
In eyes, in mentality.
It is my body that is blessed with senses. It is my body that has to go beyond shackles and fences.
It is my body that helped me connect to the higher self of mine.
And I felt divine.
I was still a rebel.
For I had shunned those torturing brasseries, the high neck laces and tightened drapes.
I was naked to the nature.
I was free and for society
That was a mistake.
Ya ya... Character and all.
I was a rebel.
And had a new label of fall.
Often was I told that I was so not Indian.
The culture was named. The religion, genes, society framed.
Again the character was questioned.
Again the pointed fingers. Again and again the ideal sculpture was spunned.
And I looked around.
Women getting raped, taped, craped.
Women themself pointing fingers.
For they were themself confused .
What was right and what was conditioned
were both fused.
I pitied those who were still shackled
Thinking about others' clothes, respect, dignity, culture
Where deep inside was a confused mind
Shocked at the strength
Too stunned to comprehend
Right from wrong.
Weak from strong.
And like always they wanted to tame me.
For this is the reality of our valued human society
That what is stronger and free is a mutual enemy
For envy and fear takes root
In those who are in pots
And can't bear fruits.
Instead they crave attention
By pointing fingers at the trees
Rooted in forest
Blaming them of being wild and uncultured
While hiding their boneshied culture.
Why being Indian was a pride to me.
Still is. But the real one.
So was being a feminist - in it's essence.
Born in a country full of all topographies
Where mountains are as much a part as ocean or plateaus or fields.
Yet there is North and South. Yet there is North East.
We claim to be diverse and equal
Why the racism then? Why the pointing of fingers.
We the Indians with concepts of Ardhnarishwar
Where Shiva and Shakti unite and make each and every individual.
We the educated and scientific brains
Knowing that testosterone and estrogen is what every entity contains
Yet we the fools to deny it all
And make some artificial concepts
Of highs and falls.
Growing up was a rebellious phase.
All those years of learning and unlearning.
Still is. For am still growing.
And I still am a rebel, a feminist and an Indian.
~ Mystical Wanderer
