Feminism - NOT a dirty word

The Oxford dictionary defines feminism as 'a movement or theory supporting women's right on the grounds of equality of the sexes.' It's based on the rational notion that women are PEOPLE too.

When I go around telling people that I believe in a feminism, I get an uncountable number of 'Oh my gosh"s. They think feminism is a dirty word, a word so scum-like they wouldn't dare to use it. Somehow, there is a large amount of negativity associated with the word.

What they don't seem to realise is that feminists don't exactly go around kicking guys. This comment raises a myriad, "Yes. But do you really think that today's women are oppressed?" They ask me this. They do.  I feel that this question is the first sign that we are locked up, shut out from the real world because of the protective environments we grow up in.

I would have been too. Maybe I still am. All I know is that one of my best friends, she's a girl. Her family- they're one of the many urban orthodox. I know that her family doesn't care about what she does with her life, her academic pursuits, or her ambitions. If they could, they would get her married this instant to some stranger.

I have seen her struggle; cry, because no one cares. Cry, because her brother receives ten times the encouragement that she gets, just because he was born a boy.

And I don't get it. I don't get why people don't see all of this; don't hear about it. Is this world so deaf? Not a single girl child has been born in many towns in India for the last few years. AND any thought of God being a woman receives shocked looks from - everyone. I mean, what's wrong in just thinking that?

I have covered nothing, NOTHING, in the above few paragraphs. Even if I continued forever, I still wouldn't. I'm not saying that men don't have their share of problems. Nor am I saying that I want women to rule the world and be the supreme power. However crazy I might seem, I know where to stop.

No, all I'm saying is that I'm sick and tired of feminism being branded as a dirty and out casted word, I'm tired of the stigma associated with it. I'm tired of people not opening their eyes and seeing, truly seeing everything around them. This is where urban life falls way down. This is where our school-home-school lives become most pointless. TV shows are so far away from real life, it's not even funny. When we're on the computer, we're only on Facebook and YouTube. No one seems to know about the V-day campaign. Some people haven't even heard of Amnesty.

And no one even seems to care. This world is NOT full of clouds and bunny rabbits and rainbows and leprechauns.

I think it's time to open our eyes. I don't mean to offend anyone with my strong opinion on this subject. I know I will only be met with more weird looks than I already receive. I also want to say that people aren't crazy to go around campaigning for women's rights along with so many other things, if this world really is such a happy, 'equal rights and everything' place.

Don't get me wrong. I'm proud to be a girl. However much I may ramble on about this, I have grown up in a family where we are all treated equally. And, because of this, I didn't even start opening up and looking around me till recently.

Also, I do know that India is now being virtually governed by a woman. And America too, if all goes well. But, if women and men ARE treated equally, then the issue of a woman president wouldn't exactly create so many responses, would it?

Let me say that all I want is equality. I'm not desperate to be hated by the male sex; or the female sex, for that matter. Feminism has it's limits. All it calls out for is equality. No more. But no less.

Hooligans at Zoosville

As if it's not enough to bear with a bunch of hooligans throughout the school day, my IIT class welcomes me with thrice the number. I make it a point to come right on time, if not a few minutes late, to prevent my eyes and ears from being abused to great extents.

However, circumstances fail to ever favour me, and i, for the first time in eternity, turn up a whole 15 minutes early. I curse myself for my bad time sense, and search for an empty seat, trying my best to ignore the lingering smell of sweat, intermingled with that of worn-out school uniforms and mud-stained shoes.

The first hooligan of the day accidentally shifts his foot a nanometer from it's original position, only to leave me stumbling across the room, trying in vain to regain my balance. I avoid eye contact with anyone as I reach my seat. Spare me; I get embarrassed enough at school as it is.

Sadly, my choice of place is far from perfect. Unlike the usual set of brains between whom i can sit and pretend to fit in with, I'm surrounded by a bunch of dirty, sweaty, and, yes, giggly guys, who can't keep their mouths shut for more than two seconds.

The guy next to me stares, as though it's perfectly illegal for a girl to sit next to him. Some hooligans in front of me take out their phones, cunningly hiding them, placing them in the perfect position so as to be able to message each other, yes, EACH OTHER, though out class. Clever, you might think. Not quite. Especially when you're sitting right behind them and hear them bursting into fits of laughter every time they receive an SMS.

The boy on my right is sincerely doing last week's homework. Okay, maybe not a hooligan after all, but who said scribbling away undecipherable math sums is any better than under- bench messaging? The continuous scratching of his pen somehow annoys me more than deep-voiced giggles.

Metres and metres away from my inches-from-hell sitting place, a guy sits on the windowsill, twirling his pen and, yes, talking(?) to a group of girls. He occasionally runs a hand through his hair. I roll my eyes so hard, it hurts. I stuff my hand into my pocket to prevent myself from hurling my 10-inch math book onto him. Yes, the scene looks that unbearable.

Two girls walk in even later than me(and to think i never thought it possible). They make their way towards their seats. They don't topple over any one's feet. They don't find their seats between the craziest attention-seeking prats of all time. The guy next to them smiles and says hello, and is not revolted by the fact that a girl is sitting next to him. As though by a stroke of luck, their eyes miss the guy on the windowsill.

I groan out in frustration, only to be met with another terrified, get-out-don't-sit-next-to-me look from the guy on my left. Well, at least someone finds me intimidating.

Just then, the 'professor' walks in. Silence ensues. The pen stops scratching. The giggling in front is, miraculously, controlled. The boy on the windowsill jumps up as though he's just been struck by lighting(how i wish it were true...).

Peace at last. =)

DEATH

It welcomed me,
It opened it's arms,
It grinned an evil grin.
It cunningly ushered me,
With promises of a better place.
It came in the form
Of the blade of a sword,
Of blood being spilt.
It lured me,
It was tantalizingly close.
It sought me.
When I refused it,
It bribed,
It begged,
It pleaded.
I knew fighting it
Was impossible.
But still, I resisted.
It allured,
It enticed,
It beckoned,
It seduced to great extents.
My resistance fell;
Came crumbling down.
It pulled me
With might immeasurable.
I then became it's victim.

The many uses of the ribbon

I must confess that i DO study in one of those schools where it's an absolute necessity to wear white ribbons every single day for god-knows what reason. Okay, i do realise that they're desperate to make us hide any sign of large, flashy rubber bands with silver butterflies and bright 'pink' sunflowers, but, hey, why waste such a useful artifact on hair?

Like when it's Monday morning, and you hurriedly grab your freshly washed shoes , and grope around for some lace, and rush onto the school bus. But you lose your lace in the whole chaotic process. Ribbons are a perfect substitute. Much more classy, in any case.

Or when you're doing a must-be-finished-NOW science experiment and there's five minutes for the bell, and your apparatus chooses to get all leaky at that moment. Instead of panicking and clutching your hair wildly, why not use a ribbon to stop the nagging snag?

Oh, oh, and what about when you forget your handkerchief? Or when you desperately need a bookmark because of your ever-failing memory? Or as a blindfold at a birthday party while playing with the pinata?

And they make really funky wristbands!

Ah, the many USEFUL uses of the ribbon...

The Park

As I sink into the sofa and grab the remote, preparing myself for my favorite soap, my mom nudges me. Take a walk to the park , she says. She mumbles something about fresh air. I glare at her. She has any excuse to make me shed some weight. Me? Well, it's just my excuse to eat more.

I make my way into the park, which is a street away. It's tiny. Minuscule, really. Not an inch larger than my house. Blocks of stone are placed together in groups of three. A group of teenagers flock on one side. Some kids are playing football. Noisily. But it only seems to add on to the tranquility. I can't help but feel a bit lonely.

Some old ladies are huddled together in the centre of the park. I can almost hear them whispering, complaining about some long-lost grandson or insolent daughter-in-law. A shocking trip to the restaurant or the need for stronger censorship. They throw reproachful looks at the soccer kids.

I see the 90-odd year old lady, the one who walks around the park twenty times every single day. Her steps are small, snail like. She stops once in a while, adjusting her sari, checking if all her body parts are working and still in place. There's a compelling look of serenity, even innocence, on her face. She doesn't seem to be bothered by the loud kids. I somehow feel that she realises how incomplete the park would be without their high-pitched shrieks, jests and jeers.

Just as I turn to leave, a dog bounds into the park. A beautiful, big, golden retriever. A bundle of energy and intensity. Following it is a little girl, a smile playing on her lips as she chases the dog.


The picture is perfect.