Year 2014; the year of a crushed hypothetical, when I came to terms with pursuing a degree in social sciences and couldn’t foresee the present-day dynamic between myself and the patriarchy. Between myself and the society. With raging hormones, I mostly had inappropriate (read: propagandized) thoughts and a habit of disguising pollution for everything green and romantic in the air. Naïve, self-obsessed and proud of my thick hair, I thought I will conquer the world one day.
Presenting myself, saree-clad, on the college farewell was a weak attempt at swag. But then again, I remember sleeping at night with lesser worries. Lesser, yet peculiar.
I have been bullied by intermediate teachers but I am still hesitant to attach blame with those poor, stuck-in-a-limbo women. The domineering has stayed with me, though. I could tell I was curious, could feel it but there was no direction to express it. Hell, wouldn’t even name what I felt properly. Was under an illusion that happiness had recognized me and would stick for the rest of my life.
It was my late teens and while trying hard to be an adult, I super-imposed the wrong jigsaw pieces in my life. Having, thinking about, doing, or feeling about ‘something’ rather than nothing.
Little did I know that I could do with therapy and well-informed opinions at this point.
Little did I know that being saree-clad on my college farewell was just another rite of passage and would not enhance my feminine energy any time soon.
Year 2018; the year I thought melancholy could be remodeled into sexual aura.
Recently, my constant saw this picture and said she wanted to recreate this and witness it. I thought hard and long about the undertones of being clad in the same saree for my graduation farewell, four years later. (major take-away: I am really low-maintenance)
In spite of achieving an undergrad degree, having met different people, facing the worst hospital visits for a good two years care-taking for my mother, being alone, growing up in terms of disposal finance, having had wholesome experiences with all-things-academic and literature, I still could not see any difference in my feminine energy.
At this point, prose did not come easily to me. I associated my vulnerable self to heartbreak, evil, hypocrisy, lower standards, poor academia, and unquenchable cannons of fire in my gut for far too long. My body became habitual of existing at the receiving end of storms and guiding them with profound loneliness.
Everything has been subjective since then but my pillowcases are still not tired of pretending that they are not damp every now and then.
Four years later, I have the privilege of therapy and well-informed opinions but my love and care for everyone around me tends to be a bit extensive.
I am working on it.
