Monday, October 30, 2017

Stop.



You tell me to stop
So instead I type
Because to stop would mean
That this world is fine
And it’s okay to accept it
Just the way it is.

But there, you see
Lies the problem
I cannot stop
For to stop would mean
That I’m finally comfortable
Wearing hot pants and walking
On a dark empty road at night
That my gender no longer
Matters at work
That I won't be asked
Without realising
To book the meeting room
Or arrange the hospitality
To leave after work
Early before a drink
That paternity leave
Is as important as maternity
That popping out a baby
Is no longer just my responsibility

That I don’t have to spend my life
Being Superman
And Wonder Woman
Morphed into one
For I still don’t know how
To make that perfect roti
And manage my retirement fund
And pay my EMIs
And manage to find a job
That doesn’t make me
Tear out my hair
Drown a little everyday
Give up my dignity just a little more
Within these corporate walls
Closing in, closing in.

I’ll stop when I no longer
Feel guilty about sitting
In a women’s compartment
A ladies seat
A ladies special
Or worse
For taking up space
In a general dabba
Which men choose to believe
Is now for men
For why do girls bother entering
When they have a place of their own
Ironic, wouldn't you say
Since the only reason we need that place
Is because your hands decide
To nonchalantly not stay your own.

I’ll stop when I no longer
Need to share my Uber details
Need to carry a pepperspray
Need to worry about what I say
Need to hide my night time escapades
My clothes, my choices
My brains.

You tell me to stop
So instead I type
For what else can I do
Except fight a little
Every day
My way
And hope
That one day
You won’t tell me
To stop
This mahila morcha
This feminist crap
That one day
I won't need to
And this world will be fine
And I’ll stop.




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