a revery.

I want to be with you. I want to be with you in a small, tidy village fifteen minutes away from the nearest town where we can catch the latest flicks once in a while. I want to live with you in a wooden cottage with a sprawling messy bed and ill-matched couches with bright tones and pastels painted on to them. I want to have breakfasts with you on the front porch, nothing but a juice and some bread and the world to view. I want a little pathway in front of our house that leads to the park and deeper into a forest where unknown dangers await. We can take a walk there on mornings we wake up a little adventurous. Maybe you can teach and I can write. And we will have a silly neighbor to gossip about on aimless evenings because we have nothing better to talk about. On Saturday nights we can dance to our favorite music and try to reminisce what it felt like to be young and in love. On Sundays we could take the kids out for a drive to the town and get ice cream and cheap brunch. And every other day you can scowl as I try out new recipes from Pinterest and TV shows that taste nothing like the pictures. You could end up cooking spicy Indian food and splash a mix of your favorite vegetables from a nearby organic farm we visit on Fridays and cover up my ill-fated recipes. I want to be with you on days when you wake up with a headache and I give you a massage and make it worst and you politely decline saying you feel better. On the days when you wake up with a smile on your face because you dreamt about heaven and angels and a world of posies. I will be with you even on the days when you turn your face away from me and I pack for a runaway to another planet, because love would always bring me back right next to your feet and our wooden floor. I want to create a new world with you where we can live based on what we are and not who we were. Where I will ask you everyday, “How are you?” and leave aside, “How were you?” A world where we are unknown but by us. Where we can share a connection that nobody has to talk about because they really don’t care.  We could start over everyday with aimless dreams and talk about how we will never reach our dreams because they never end. I will get us a mason jar with a hole at the lid where we can squeeze in small notes and coins proudly labeled ‘adventure’ to get us to our dream destinations. And then end up emptying it out when we run out of grocery money. I want to be with you when we are frail and disinterested about the world and life because body aches have taken over our walks and even the blossoms at the park next to our wooden cottage doesn’t really brighten the spirits in our being. I will be there for you when we have run out of reasons to live. We can count the days to the grave and plan about our epitaphs and correct each other’s pre-written eulogies. And on the day the heavens have declared as the last for your existence on earth and your breath is to be grasped by the one above, I will hold your hand and as we sit in silence, we will know that it was worth it. That love had prevailed.

 

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Groper, Me Too.

To,

My Grop-er

Thank you for teaching me the inexorable lesson on  how to shatter the life of a girl in 3 secondsget on your bike, ride on an empty lane, spot a girl, grab her breasts, keep riding. Till you reach home and then use those hands to eat food your mother cooked, your mother who has breasts.

It’s hard to fathom the intense amount of pleasure you might have received in those 3 seconds you held a strangers breast. Or do you thrill on the idea that she will now have her arms crossed over her bosom shaking a little everytime a machine wheels in close. That she stays afraid even behind closed doors, afraid that taking her clothes off might leave her breasts a little too bare – a little too grope-able.

How do I explain it to you – imagine you are walking on a street and someone just clenched your genitals and ran off. And you could do nothing about it. Because it happens. It’s the way of the world – it’s a disadvantage you were born with – the gender you were born as. Or I am sorry if I assumed wrong – you might derive pleasure from the quick clench?

Groper, you might think – oh, this one’s so full of drama. It happens. SHE’S ACTING LIKE SHE IS THE ONLY ONE! And that’s why it is not okay, because I. AM. NOT. THE. ONLY. ONE.

Because 365 days of the year, in the East and West and North and South, your hands clench, twist, grab, punch, grope the flesh of another human being because that human is of a gender with two extra alphabets, because that human has shapes and curves.

But what can we do? What can I do? You will never see this letter, and by this time tomorrow, I don’t know how many more women you may have passed by in the many roads and bylanes of this country. Let me rephrase that, how many humans with curves and two extra alphabets to their gender.

 

So long,

The Groped.

 Now, the greater sister of our traumatization – the rape gets a little highlight now and then, a second page in the paper or maybe a quick-phased protest somewhere, just a little candle light till people’s minds remember a little less. But what about rape’s lesser known sisters- molestation, sexual assault, does it matter less when there isn’t a hole poked through us?

(Feminism is not a fight for superiority – maybe equality but most importantly for humanity. Women, we just wanted to be treated like the humans we were born)