Which is worse?

Spent some time looking up some of the #YesAllWomen posts today and this is the result of that. Didn't quite turn out to be the passionate feminist rant it could have very well been but whoever said passion needs to be angry?

This is a silent response to all judgement - of attire and ambition, company kept and sought, decisions taken and paths chosen.

Incidentally, also my first shot at mixing prose and free verse in the same piece. :)

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She sat, her mind as eerily blank as the page in front of her, the cursor blinking tantalizingly on the screen. It invited her to write, to express, to speak of memory buried beneath years of experience, knowledge hidden under layers of pretence. It asked her to tell a story, to share the moment with millions around the world, to be a part of a movement. It won’t change the world, some said. And it doesn’t make the nightmare go away. And she knew. She wasn’t out to change the world, nor did she expect the lights to turn on and chase away the monsters under her bed. But she did know that as fingers hit the keys, words appeared on her screen and the blinking cursor slowly moved to the right, she would be a part of something larger than herself. She could hold hands with women around the world, even if only metaphorically, and squeeze hard for comfort and strength. She could be sure it wasn’t just her, it wasn’t her fault.

She knew it all. And yet, the cursor kept blinking and the page stayed spotlessly white, flecked only by the dust on her laptop screen. She looked down at herself, lounging in bed in her brother’s t-shirt, oversized, comfortable and covering all except a sliver of her shorts and the voices floated back into her head. Who was she to complain about inequality when she could dress like that? How, when she was studying what she wanted and wasn’t forced into marriage in her early twenties, could she complain of discrimination? What need did she have to throw a fit, to fight a battle that wasn’t even hers? She sighed.

She blinked at the screen. The cursor blinked back. And then the words bubbled forth.

'Which is worse?

The fear of being groped on a crowded bus on a hot summer day

Or of being groped at dinner in a five star hotel?

Which is worse?

The paranoia of a spiked drink while you step away to the ladies’ room

Or of insect repellent mixed in milk while you put the kids to bed?

Which is worse?

Not knowing the man you see on the mandap of your wedding

Or waking up next to a stranger with no memory of yesterday?

Which is worse?

The glass ceiling at that corporate job and the unattainable board room

Or the barriers of poverty and “tradition” that cause high school dropouts?

Which is worse?

Being molested when you were wearing a mini skirt and halter

Or when your sari blouse has sleeves till your elbows?

Which is worse?

Abuse now or then, by him or him?

Disrespect on this continent or that?

The body doesn’t recognize

Continent

Class

Clothing.

The woman hurts.

End.'