Born a female, becoming a woman.
At least sometimes,
caught in the crossfire of sex and gender,
of sexual dimorphism and gender inequality,
of feminist activism and male chauvinism.
Struggling, balancing roles,
deprived, exploited,
yet achieving,
sometimes because of
often in spite of men.
Quiet, reticent, self-effacing,
clinging, paranoid, stewing,
immature, but adjusting,
bold, noisy, demanding, attention-seeking,
crafty, bitchy, nit picking, garrulous,
gossiping.
But at all times lovable.
[Well, almost.
Getting on your nerves at times.
Like men, and yet, so unlike them.]
Conscious of looks.
Eternally.
Inimical to other women.
[Eternally?]
Melting to men.
At times, belting them too.
Mismanaged household budgets,
but managed households.
Eyes that mist easily,
steely resolve that smiles through bitten lips
and a womb that cradles existence.
As also
a sixth sense that sizes up danger. Effortlessly.
And men.
Wilting under the scorch of mundane chores,
the glass ceiling,
the casting couch.
And yet
upping the bar, quietly, unobtrusively.
The butt of men’s jokes,
of unwelcome attention,
and the avalanche of advise.
Also overprotection —
Surreptitious chauvinism.
The symbol of sex,
the object of desire,
the nemesis of men.
Woman,
the soft stroke of creation,
the cuddly contour of care.
Ajai R. Singh
31st Dec 2008