|Image courtesy - DragoArt.com|
Of late you’ve accused me of so many sexual crimes I have yet to commit, I’m contemplating suicide so that I can be reborn as a petticoat. I get it, my lack of length makes you deranged and you end up doing bad bad things. But must you always transfer the blame for your misdeeds on me, you nincompoops?
There was a time I used to fancy myself as just a skirt, hanging in front of a girl, asking her to love me. Fall in love she did, hook, hemline and zipper. Our love was as perfect as described in Hallmark cards and as deep as a Bengali boudi’s neckline. I fancied myself as the wind beneath her legs, goading her to own her body and embrace her sexuality. She often whispered to me how liberated I made her feel. I hugged her tight, fluttered around her waist, as she set out to conquer the world, looking like a million bucks. It was a smooth ride for us till some dick-head with no control of his dick pounced on her and then conveniently claimed it was me that beckoned him. At first I dismissed as a joke. A single male of the species with limited intelligence refusing to take responsibility for his pawing ways. I was so wrong. Before I could say STFU, it became a chorus with repeat performances year after year. It cut across demographic barriers uniting men and men alike, hell bent on absolving the molestor, the rapist, the sexual aggressor who needed to resort to violence to feel like a man. I have borne the burden of their blame for so long, my shoulders are stooping lower than these men’s self-esteem. These days I feel like Ganga whose sole purpose in life is to wash off the sins of these paapis.
Hey Ram, beam me up, will ya?
After much introspection I have arrived at this conclusion; my biggest crime is being born a skirt. And I am never allowed to forget that. I was told that the only way I can hope to lead a long unfruitful life is by covering myself with layers of plastic and shutting myself in the cupboard and wait for death. In the meantime, I was free to do whatever others wanted me to do. The rules set for my impeccable conduct by upholders of my morality read longer than the terms and conditions that no one reads but clicks on ‘I agree’ anyway. Interestingly, the rules apply only to me and not the ones who set them. While my male ‘counterpant’ is encouraged to be whatever he wants to be – loose character or a tight assed aggressive prick who demands, raises his voice, pushes, shoves, to climb the ladder of success, dare I do the same, I am promptly labelled as a bitch.
Her colours are too loud, she shines too bright. Is she trying to be a slut? She argues too much, has opinions that clash with my ego – my god, she needs to get laid!
Alas, I am that black sheep skirt that refused to conform and reached for the knees and settled somewhere near the thighs. Since I’m obviously up to no good, I must be taught a lesson. And what better way to do than trample all over my dignity and soil me with the filth that resides in your head! Yet, you try to justify it by labelling me as the mini nymph that messed up your poor innocent head.
You have long convinced yourself that you’re the helpless victim of the girl in heels who flaunts her curves, sways her hips as she walks. She does it to catch your attention. So, if you pinch her butt, grope her breasts and tear her clothes off, she should collapse at your feet with gratitude.
I mean, isn’t this what every woman wants, despite men claiming they have no idea what she wants.
She simply wants his attention, dammit! Yes she does, you moron, but the one who is man enough to appreciate her sensuality. And definitely not the one that leers and jeers and treats her as a plaything who will entertain him.
What perplexes you is when she rejects your advances! You just cannot believe that the woman who looks sexy and beautiful just so that she can ensnare you has the audacity to kick you in your groin and push you away. You fume – the jalebi of your mother’s eyes, the prince whose wishes can never been denied. You are after all the realiser of your parent’s dream, their insurance for old age, who will be sold off to the highest bidder in the dowry market. In the meantime you decide to show these pesky women their real place.
It unsettles you that she defies the many diktats you set for her good conduct. The more you threaten her with violence, the more determined she gets to fight you back. It scares you that it is your stiff resistance to let her surge that fuels her determination to succeed. The more you shame her for voicing her sentiments, the louder her voice becomes. Sometimes she becomes shrill, her ways militant. But after trying to silence her voice for centuries, can you blame her? She’s not asking you to pick up cudgels for her. Learn to listen, empathise and accept that there’s something deeply wrong the way women are treated instead of fighting her with whataboutery! Instead of telling her she needs to change to keep herself self safe, change that thinking of yours.
And you know what, I have made up my mind. I do not want to be pants, petticoat, salwar or whatever shit you want me to be. I am proud to be who I am.
Proud to be a short skirt.