Yes she is broken.
Yes she is hurt.
Yes she is quiet,
No, she isn't weak.
She holds within her calm appearance gargantuan storms. Storms, which if let loose, would rip through lives, incinerate accusations, and only cause havoc for those who take her silence as weakness. She knows her strength, for she knows herself to be a woman. A being of almost divine proportions, blessed with the power to bear the fruit of life, and if her existence or honour be threatened, entrusted with the power to take that very boon back.
If the Gods could show the power women have, you'd see them standing in the centre of the entire creation, unravelling and absorbing the universe and creating a infinite universes again. Faceless, formless, free from the bounds that we, as mere mortal men, often put on them.
Our patriarchal society has taught us to dominate women, just like it has taught us to hate the colour pink. We have been taught that if a woman doesn't live by our rules, we have the audacity to take matters into our own hands, be it whatever way. This society has justified acid bottles in our hands as a part of unrequited love, it has justified those perverted touches in a crowded place as an honest mistake, it has justified violation of a lady's honour as a youthful spite. This society justifies scathing remarks on the character of a lady if her knees show in her dress, and yet finds it acceptable to coerce girls for their own libido. This society, these people, these men disgust me.
They speak so highly of accepting women empowerment, of spreading pro equality messages, but when one hurt soul whimpers for help, these erudite gentlemen turn their keyboards into catapults hurling accusations and insults as if they can't stand the fact that they couldn't break them competely. But women are such magnificent beings, they join their broken self with gold, and only turn stronger with each hit. And when their words don't break them, they pick sticks, and when that fails, they pick stones. It's a never ending licentious process of hate, that keeps on making her stronger than all the forces combined.
And thus, if she is silent, let her be.
Or prepare to have your world torn to tatters in front of your very own eyes, while you stand there amongst the perpetual destruction, until you are stripped of everything you have, stripped of your pride, stripped of your vanity.
Last Holi, when I was ousted from my paternal home, a loving dear friend decided to give me refuge.
It was the first time in my life that I played with colours. It was the first time when I wasn't covered from head to toe in oversized shirts or kurtas to hide my body and breasts if and when someone from the cherished extended family would forcefully sneak in and drench me in coloured water. It was the first time that I wasn't told to stay inside the house and reveal myself only when called for. It was the first time that I wasn't instructed to dress up in salwar kameez.
It was the first time that I played holi and ran around in a t-shirt, a payjama and a pair of chappals chasing friends. It was the first time I did not fear being groped and I wasn't. It was the first time I looked like a hybrid of a steel utensil and black grapes moulded into a human.
Post drinking the holy bhaang and singing, I carelessly snatched the dirty dupatta of my friend's mother and draped it around my head to complete the refugee look. My friend clicked a picture of me in my now horribly amusing attire. I sent the picture to you giving you a chance to make fun of me for a change.
Instead, you counted the number of times my dupatta was draped carelessly around my neck blessing me by running over my colourful head. You told me how you loved the dupatta doning my face that was drenched in the tradition of colours. You told me how beautiful I looked with my eyes piercing yours from that dark face smiling at you. I loved you more in that moment. I found home in you.
Two months later, you left me to be destroyed in your love and your lack of love. I marinated myself with the colours that dripped from what was left of us.
A year later, when I'm white and colourless, it dawns on me that you loved a woman who was draped in the dupatta of calm lacking the sequin made of confrontation. I showed my true colours. So did you.
That Holi, I was ousted from two patriarchal homes. One belonged to me, the other belonged to you.
Wishing everyone a Happy Holi (: