Mrs Goody Two Shoes X

Lost in a crowd

I fought to define womanhood. Then broke the definition myself

Womanhood. How we fight to define it. How we struggle for its rights and freedom. Once, in the dead of the night, I went to the extent of shouting at god knows what decible to explain to one of the husband's friends how girls, more often than make a 'forced choice' rather than a 'voluntary choice' and can't even tell the difference between the two because, well, society has conditioned them to things that they think are natural, but are not, and... I think by this time, you have also been confused by the train of words and thoughts just like the friend was.
His look said, "Woman, what is this gibberish that you think is intellectual s**t?" I glared. These men think that women are all just 'Sex and the City' -- clothes, restaurants, make-up, fluff, idiocy and men.
Next day, still fuming and saluting the woman's true spirit and the insensitivity of the society and all that the world brings under one term -- 'feminism' -- I stood in front of the dresser. Sindoor in place, bindi, gold jewellery and one of the most gorgeous saris from my trousseau. Not one detail out of place. My bedecked self could draw no pointed looks, or sardonic comments from the aunties at the puja pandal. Yes, I was doing what I did best. Follow the dictates of society. Literally. Meaning, the society or complex I live in.
The heels hurt me and stuck into the muddy grounds, courtesy the night before's downpour. I thought of the very recent heated argument and my passionate outpouring. I looked at the more recent me-the-conformist, eager to please the genteel clan gathered before Ma Durga.
As Shibesh and his wife approached me and the husband, all four of us eyeing each other with a touch of animosity and apprehension at who had turned out better (as if that mattered), with our manufactured smiles. And then started the ramble. Ramble for me, but for them, their whole worlds, their purpose of life. A "How much is this sari for?" followed by "Only ten thousand." Or titters over someone's slightly loose kameez. Fifty-year-old Sujata auntie pouted and said in an icky girly tone, "What Mr Sen, that other day I waved at you at meeting, and you did not even look at me? What should I do to get attention from you?"
As I sat there and sighed, I understood, 'womanhood' can't have one definition. And I suddenly understood the look in my friend's eyes and felt it was all for the best that the debate had been washed away with the rains.