I am a Woman

Another day ends, the engine’s put off and I climb into my sanctuary. To myself and only to myself. I look at my reflection. Tired, dusty, tanned but firm and resolute. Hair ruffled in between deadlines, parlour and day care, make-up’s gone in the rush of the day. I undress – to me and only to me. To see a full-bodied woman, specks of growth in my arm pits; I loosen up to touch the elastic mark on my waist. My fitted bra comes off and I am glad to be a woman and a good one at that!
I remember the journey it took me to be a woman. The long haul of timid adolescence, nervousness of body and mistaken sensuality. But here I am through all the angst and the grind at home, with boys as cousins, work and relationships. And it gives me a spark. A spark I am proud of. A spark of mischief in my eyes, a spark of knowing how to bend the rule, how to make heads turn. A spark that brightens in the male competitive world and shimmers in cozy, comfort corners.

A spark that says, I am comfortable, being a woman.

I put my weary toes in the tub, I close my eyes. Remember my gym, I loved the feeling of that. The sweat that made me happy. Remember the Lo real ad for hair colour, the Aspiration liposuction banner; oh the obsession with body. Body in its true sense? Beauty in its true sense? Sensuality in its true sense? Ability to withstand the glare and toss ones’ head confidently. Confidence?
Knowledge, girl power!

The night passes by.

Welcome mornings! The gym rush. Baby porridge, potty and powder routine. Shower, blush, perfume, power watch and strappy dress. I pack my lunch, boiled water, tampon; my education, my first show down at work, the recent professional snub I gave my colleague, first byline – another day of head turnings, balancing egos and polite assertions.

I am a woman and a good one at that!

Where does feminism go from here?

I wanted to be a teacher all my school days, wanted to fall in love, during my college days and go to office during my PG days. In the process I became a self sufficent, practical, independent adult.
'Confidence' over took the akward timidness, reserved shy nature took to aggressive and pushy; sometime loud self assertiveness and the wonder in my eyes was replaced by mundane everyday practicality.
"I know," "I can do it myself", "I don't need a drop,"; my feministic brain never knew helplesness or submissive behaviour. "How am I going home?"; "You are so sweet" - alein words.
My prince in shinning armour did come and did sweep me off my feet but I lost on some of those mushy moments, chasing the stars; my prince didn't really have to rescue me. Much so I made the first move to capture my lover's attention.
And whatever fairy tale moments I did have, I felt, 'Oh, so guilty, why didn't I take care of it myself.'
So here I am, lighting a lone candle once in a while, buying a flower for myself, taking all my doctor's appointments, fixing the leaky tap, booking our vacations, handling hubby's work stress - without a day off! Phew!!!
Did Germaine Greer think of these while defining feminism? Does this make me a feminist, woman taking care of herself. Assertive, strong, presentable and independent?
And devoid of emotion sometimes? Don't feel guilty giving my husband the slient treatment. Though take his casual flirting in my stride, no tears lost there! Don't enjoy being the dependable agony aunt, who can take care of herself. Understand office pressures and lack of quality time only because have worked in an office before? Would rather be illiterate with an oily knot and fancy ribbon, cajoled by her lover to smile through her tears.
Where do we feminists go after this? While trying not to be a doormat, we become the rooster on the roof, pretty withstanding the seasons but unreachable.
I would anyday, go back to the days, where life was still a cramped book of secrets; waiting for the college hottie to make a move, awaiting a cousin's gift, expecting a pick up, looking for a 'guy' shoulder, asking silly questions for reassurance and giving teary explanations. Still like a guy to pay my bill, open the door for me and actually put his cigarete off.

30 plus

I get ready in my simple white trouser and sleeveless white top with hand embriodery, hair clean and wavy. My husband, already hassesled with work, drops me, baby and nanny to Levis store. Ooooooooh!
"I want my measurement," I say to the cute, young salesboy. "30," he answered, "What fit are you looking for?"
'30', it echoed in my mind; are you sure?
After half an hour, I walked out of the store with the latest black Levis piece and more importantly feeling good, confident and joyous as I wasn't left behind in the 'beauty-personality' businees; while dealing with my daily routine with naniies and household. I could still make heads turn!
On my way home, I pick up 'Chicken for the all moms soul', magazine for Aamir Khan's interview and a colourful teracota bell; ready to challenge myself like always.