Am I just a series of haphazard episodes capturing my chronological, close encounters with horror to you?
Am I the omnibus of all my talents of ingenuity you were never curious to know?
Am I the assortments of all those skills you perceive I should possess that I know don’t matter much in the grand scheme of things?
Am I an anthology of all the stories I choose to reveal to you or the one I am compelled to conceal from myself?
Am I the album of the songs of my soul I have been forbidden to never compose?
Am I an event you subject yourself to suffer through every day of your life?
Am I an occurrence you come into contact with everyday and gladly forget as soon as yesterday?
Am I a rip roaring affair that satisfies your passionate cravings?
Am I a fake incident you heatedly claim never happened to you?
Am I like the day whose relentless dawn you have practiced tediously to wake up to every single time your sleep breaks?
Am I like the night whose bitter howling winds make you pray for a grateful end to yet another flogging you were forcefully subjected to?
Am I an episode of the time in between that you use as a mode of pathetic escapism?
Am I the curse you wish you could erase from the story of your Life?
Am I the colourful awning that you hide under from the punishing rain which leaves behind a few droplets of pleasant verve that you fall in love with after every drenching?
Am I the thread, the needle in you needs, to mend the tattered remains of the daily grind that is Life?
Am I an embrace of warm familiarity to the weary in you?
Am I a sense of security from the harsh winds of Life to you?
Am I the silly games you played in your childhood?
Am I the shoulder you always rely on when battling your mind and the world at large?
Am I the tiny steps that lead you to that one giant leap of faith?
Am I the hands that soothe and guide you with every fall?
Am I the luscious tang in your fruits of labour?
Am I the love your skin melts itself into?
Am I the painting you lose precious hours staring at?
Am I the book you turn every page of and realize you need to go back and begin from the prologue yet another time?
Am I the wetness that trickles down your eyes when the world breaks you down?
Am I the hot shower that washes off the grime the world piles on you day after day?
Am I the blessing you thank your Gods for with bent knees and folded hands?
Am I the prayer in your lips when you lose sense of right and wrong?
Am I the worship the sacred conscious in you struggles to recognize?
Beneath all the accumulated impressions of every sight seen, notations of every voice heard, traces of every odour smelled, residue of every flavour tasted and marks of every touch felt over the years, Who am I?
My identity is defined by the world in terms of an organ. My body owns a vagina hence I am termed a Woman.
I am always a commodity referred in association with a Man.
I am either my father’s daughter or my brother’s sister or my husband’s wife or my late husband’s widow if I am one of those unlucky cursed ones.
I am never Me. I am always somebody’s someone. So many “somebody’s”, I lose count…
I am an amalgamation of my experiences of always being someone to somebody. My distorting identities as defined by these various bonds blend, merge, dive and swim along, losing track among the vastness and vagaries of the ocean of relationships.
I slip and slide and split until breakpoint.
I shine bright, blur and fade away as each relationship exchanges hands and brands my possession with newer names. The process repeats itself until my breath stops.
I am either my father’s liability or a business deal depending on his net worth and what class of society he belongs to.
I am forever the prized property my brother is meant to protect and save from the world’s evil eyes.
I am the caretaker of my husband’s needs, cravings, family, pride and lineage and later designated caregiver of pretty much everyone with failing health except me.
What if I don’t want to be called anybody’s anyone?
What if I want to be just Me and still choose to become everybody’s everyone? Or nobody’s no one?
Would you please dare to break the shackles and begin to care to loosen your chauvinistic stranglehold on the so-called society?
Not just for one day!
Because honestly, I am not a DATE to be celebrated for ONE minuscule DAY!
I am More.
You don’t have to agree.
Just learn to accept with grace that I am not Less than You.
The world has partitioned itself with enough boundaries to last till the end of Time. Please don’t add to the burgeoning load of mindless disintegration.
Because I am already trying really hard to balance straddling many bridges leading everywhere to everyone and everything in my Life.
I don’t have the Time to argue or fight with You. I have things to do. Places to be. And complete all the tasks well within time.
Groceries to buy, breakfasts and lunches and dinners to prepare, water to sterilize, clothes to wash, utensils to scrub, bathrooms to clean, clothes to mend, beds to make, children to bear, PTA’s to attend…and the never ending list goes on.
Not just Yours. Ours.
Canvasses to paint, Stories to write, Series to binge on, Books to read, Tomes to publish…
Not for You. For Me.
Make Love for pleasure.
Not just Yours. Mine too.
Exercise and Meditate for good Health. Physical and Emotional.
Not just for Me. For Us.
I am not out there to compete with You. I am trying to build a little Home under the Sun that I can all mine. As are you.
So let me BREATHE. Let me LIVE. Let me LOVE.
Let me BE. FREE.
We were created by the same Hand and we will cease to exist the same way.
What are we fighting for then?
A Man; be it a father, brother, lover or husband and a Woman; be it a mother, sister, lover or wife are like the Left and the Right. One loses meaning without the other.
For there is no Left if the Right ceases to exist. And vice-versa.
In the Indian ethos, a woman is never one. She is always many.
She doesn’t live for herself. She lives for others.
She is not supposed to stand up for herself or stand out. She must obey. She must blend.
Agreed times are changing, but the reality is still the same for most part of the populace and that’s what this post reflects.
~Part 2 in the series questioning my Identity.