Because, Not All Men

"Boys will be boys". This is a phrase I have grown up with, every single day of my life.
'You shouldn't show skin, because boys will be boys.'
'He cheated on her. He is a boy after all!'
'He said things about her that he shouldn't have. Boys..'
Fed on this mindset, day in and day out, we now talk of men to the likes of sharks- that bite at the faintest scent of blood, who have no control over what they do and have significantly gone back in evolution.
 By normalising bad behavior, these sad excuses for human beings took the center stage, putting an entire chromosomal type to blame. Soon people who had done nothing wrong began apologising for the ones who had. They too were tricked into believing that there was something inherently wrong with the entire gender. The need to punish and shame the wrong doers is paramount for this very reason - because not all men!
Google the words "Men will be men" to look at the context that they mean it in. Not one picture puts them in a good light. You will even see a picture of a baby boy reaching out to a woman (with her cleavage exposed) , with these words written beneath. The ones who propogate this aren't even ashamed of sexualizing a child's innocent behavior. How can they ever be right? They have set a standard so low for people to achieve that they need to lose touch with humanity to reach there. 'Man enough' is always associated with aggression and sexism. Vulnerability and kindness is said to be feminine. Humanity however, is a healthy mixture of the two.
If feminism is about equality , this is something that needs to be talked about too.
From the stranger who waited by my side at 3am on a deserted highway until my father came to pick me up because the bus had dropped me at a point where it usually doesn't, to my friends with whom I can have actual conversations with, more human to human than girl to boy , irrespective of the time; the ones I respect aren't the prototype men that they try to sell as brands - these good human beings are all around me. I don't need to search through history books for them. They are here.
When girls are taught that they forever will be the damzel in distress en-route to suddenly mutating into 'sarva-gunn-sampann', boys are taught that they have to be strong, sacrificial and quiet about what they feel because 'mard ko dard nahi hota'.
Yes, there are people who believe that intentions have the power to change with the position of the sun-that a setting sun can mean a significant drop in moral standards. Like a girl texting at night could mean so much more than just that. This narrow minded thought process isn't reserved for men alone. There are women who think this way too. Small minds are not gender specific.
The fact is that if men are like the ones the advertisements and media project them as, the fight would have been between men and women. Now that we know better, the fight is against these moulds that we are expected to fit into; the fight is against equality and inequality .
The fight is to be honest to what we are, to be more human.

Death

I see you standing at the horizon, tantalisingly close; yet far away,

Do you yearn for me as I do for you, to give me a hand on my final day?

They are afraid, they call you names; but they don't see,

Among them all, you are the most faithful a friend can ever be.

While I conclude my life story, leaving it for wagging mouths to criticise, agape;

You will be the one who will take me out on my final act of escape.

When my show is done and down goes my curtain,

I know people will change, but among the uncertain; you- I know, will be my sole certain.

You lure me, entice me; tempting me to take that plunge once and for all;

Nice move; but you can't deprive me of my fairy tale end- to be saved by you, my charming prince standing tall!

You will take off my armour , scrape off my paint , tear me away from all pretence;

You will see me for what I am- skin, bones and hair- you will breakthrough my every defence.

You will break me down to my essentials; undress me, unchain me - I will from that day forever be yours to keep;

When I am no longer useful; you, I know , are that friend, who will for the last time, tuck me in to sleep..

We need to talk

We need to talk- you and I - without anybody to moderate our conversation. We need to talk about this border that separates us. About our history texts tarnished with lies to suit a section of the world. About how our hands were entwined so intricately with each other's that when they tried to pry us apart faster than we expected, we didn't have the time to let go of the other. Now we have a knot shaped tangled mass of fingers lining our border , some fingers scarred, some bleeding. 

I know that you have lost loved ones on the other side of your border. So have I. Maybe that is why as greedy hands of power try to pull us apart, tangling the knots further; even though I have now lost track of which finger is mine and which is yours , I refuse to take an active role in freeing my fingers away from you. How can I? We are family .

They tell me that it is a fight of religion. They tell me that my country hates your country and your country hates mine. Ridiculous. We haven't even met. Aren't we all individual genetic masterpieces? The question of whether we would like each other or not, should honestly be left to us. Generalising a country to be of a certain kind would be a showcase of ignorance. Differences of opinion can occur. That isn't a crime. War, however isn't the solution. We may or may not read the same books on 'religion' , but we recognize this, don't we- the need to keep our family safe, the prayer that they stay healthy and never sleep on an empty stomach, the hope that we get to see our children as they grow older and make their mark in the world, not haunted by the effects of acts of violence from our end.  This too, is a kind of religion, isn't it? 

We were victims of a crude plan of power hungry men willing to risk anything to rule. Even today, this hatred is being fed to us consciously by countries who benefit by this war. You see it too, don't you?

While my country hikes it's defence budget every year to get ready to fight you when the time comes; poverty, illiteracy, unemployment and lack of adequate Health care remain the pressing issues. I am sure that you have your own set of hurdles in your country.  

Here I am; extending a hand of friendship , silencing the voices around me that tell me that it will be chopped off; to instill in me fear that will turn into violence. They feed on our hatred, you see.. 

But I find that my hand is already

in yours, entwined as one at our border. They have buried it under years of bloodshed and hatred; but I can feel my fingers against yours. Can you?  

Life In a Nightmare

The best things about nightmares are that they are just nightmares. You wake up- and everything is fine. Today however , I woke up sans the relief of this being a nightmare after all- it was a condensed version of the life I was living .
My problem was simple- I was being stalked . There was no real evidence that he was bothering me. He was everywhere and he wanted to talk ; sometimes touch. All this while, I was never on the dreaded lonely road. I was always surrounded by people. They would react- oh yes, they would. They would ask me why I wasn't wearing a dupatta over that kurti , or that these things were common these days because 'kids like me' were not like 'them'.
I wanted to file a complaint, but I realised that I ran the risk of the following: an acid attack- because that is usually the next step, my character being put at the stakes- because I stepped out of my house , or even if I was lucky enough to live to see the man go to jail, he would obviously get a bail like everybody else and would want to get back at me for the disgrace I have put him to. Helplessness was quite the hero in my dream  .
I woke up realising how much I had moulded my life so as not to 'encourage' behaviour like this.
I wear clothes that hang loose from my shoulders, I am never out at night, I don't travel alone if I can help it, I don't drink, I don't wear clothes that are revealing. My biggest fear while talking to men- sounding flirtatious . Because being called uptight or reserved is better than being called a flirt. A flirt to them translates to being called a prostitute. Did you know that they think that you do not need consent with a prostitute?
I have been very careful and yet been molested multiple times- I was not asking for it. For instance, when a doctor who happens to be a girl is rushing in the casualty from patient to patient because delay could mean death- she is NOT asking for it. You think that a mob that watched the very doctor who made them feel better being assaulted to bits ,would react when I 'claim' that somebody groped me? Yeah right.
Remember the 'me too' posts that flooded the internet? That took immense courage. Because being molested in India automatically makes you damaged goods. (If a boy is molested, that makes him gay and unmanly) Nobody will ever want to marry or be associated with damaged goods, they say. Although I am yet to meet one person who hasn't made it through life without what they call baggage. Some wierd thought process makes you the cause for disgrace in the family - even if the molester is a family member. After all, we hide the faces of rapists, and talk about the time the victim was out wearing those revealing clothes.
What was I even expecting you ask? My government wants to adorn me with bindis and kumkums which for them is essential (for their pleasure) , while a sanitary napkin is a luxury. My teacher taught me that a luxury meant an inessential , desirable item , which is expensive or difficult to obtain . No, using a piece of cloth isn't a good option- it is unhygienic and it doesn't absorb the menstrual blood well enough. We cannot function at our best when we need to go to the rest room every hour. You may not want to understand this , because you- the ones who wanted taxes imposed on them ; are a group of men who might have never gone to school. If you have, you are a good example of how education is not equalent to knowledge and compassion .
While you still scream Bharat mata ki jai on the mike sets, or debate about national anthems in movie theaters ; do not open your mouth and ever call me India's daughter. You do not know the meaning of the word- you are not a good parent .

A READER'S DELIGHT

Every reader is a Superman living in the mask of a Clark Kent. Their super power- a secret love affair since the day they opened a book. It went on from meeting up with a loyal friend , to having heart to heart conversations with a lover willing to take you on a date when you feel like it.

It makes you steal moments from your busy day at work and tiring human interactions to listen to this lover passionately talk about war, revolution, strikes, jealousy , love.. Only to come back energized, ready to take on the world.
Oh! The blush on my cheeks? One of the characters just said something very nice.

You yearn to go back home to shed the cloak of extroversion you have donned- for that is what it takes to make your self heard.
You wish the world goodnight and settle with that book in bed, like cuddling with a forbidden lover who whispers into your ear everything about what happens next. He waits while you gasp, chuckle, shed a few tears ;together , both of you paint a world so intimate - for only the union of that author and you could have brought that masterpiece to life.
When you read an author, you read the language of his soul (even after his death)- you get a peek into its depth, for words so powerful cannot be written half heartedly . Something probably only a few got to see during his time. This beautiful saga continues till your eyes feel heavy with the weight of slumber, until sleep takes you away as one of its own.
On your visit to the library or the bookstore, the author's wink and wave from their books on the stands. You approach them as you would an old friend , run your fingers slowly along its spine and whisper a gentle 'hey there..'
For an introvert like me, books are a safe haven. They don't expect me to open my soul ,while they peel theirs down layer by layer . They don't mind my awkwardness when I meet them the first time or the long, long time I take to break the ice.
So when my friends go on dates and fall in love with colleagues at work, I have breakfast with Scott Fitzgerald, lunch with Han Kang and I dine with Khaled Hosseini.
You call this an awkward introvert's sad life, I call it my secret love affair. 

I Stutter

Those words that you casually throw to the winds,
Words pronounced with the fluidity of a flying bird at ease;
Those words - oh those words- to me , are like diamonds;
They need to be polished, worked on, practiced, repeated-
Untill they tumble out of my mouth with seemingly effortless ease-
To bring my racing thoughts to an understandable pace,
To slow down, to bring my point across.
My sentences don't end with an elegant parameter,
They have no rhyme nor order much like this poem;
Because I stutter.

 I get stuck on words;
Syllables get repeated at an alarming rate,
Bespectacled and stuttering- they made me the symbol of a prototype nerd,
My "supposed embarrassment" on display to the world.
Yes. I stutter.

I jump hurdles over difficult words,
I navigate my way through potential blocks,
I switch languages, I shuffle words;
My brain constantly plays juggle with a million synonyms for words.
Yes, I stutter.

I stutter because I dare to speak.
I stutter because I have a voice of my own.
Yes, I stutter
and this is what my voice sounds like.

The Armour

The battle shield, the thick shell, the brick walls- we've heard it all; 
The armour we wear to glue us tight when into pieces we might just fall. 
You've seen that face when you steal a glance at your closest friend,

When a random man carelessly tugs at a string she is yet to mend. 

You've watched her face calm, her fingers at ease. 

The sight they see, a picture of perfect peace. 

You've watched her draw curtains, the raging storm beneath to hide. 

You've watched her smile , while she pushed what she felt aside. 

You've done that yourself- when you said 'I'm fine' on that day of your tragic loss. 

As if your words were enough to veil that your life had just gone for a mighty toss. 

You shove them aside into that dirty corner yearning for light. 

For completion, you throw over it a thick blanket to cover that hideous sight. 

They do haunt you every night, you become aware then of your own breath, 

Yet you hold on like a flower that never blooms , but carries it's scent hidden, till it's very death. 

When somebody comes along, you wonder in silence, "Is this the one that you seek?"

Will they flinch- will they run- god forbid will they leave if you let them have a peek? 

You wait with bated breath, peel yourself down, layer by layer;

Praying , that inspite of the scars that disgust you, to stay in your life, this time they will dare.