Who am I? Who I want to be? Who can I be? All the questions stop making sense as soon as the respondent is me – ‘ a woman’.
So let’s begin with ‘What am I?’ The unfortunate answer lies in the question itself. ‘what’ is used for a thing or an object.
I am the disappointment on my parents face when they hear my first cry. I am the convenience when my dream career which I have slogged for, is not for me. I am an ideal expected to follow high standards. I am the reputation, I am the possession. I am a trophy and a scrap too. I am the ventilation of exhaustion and failure. I am the cause of a loser or even a winner but not allowed to be either. I am the insecurity of a chauvinist. I am the peace maker, but not a peace getter. I am the excitement on the face of my stalker, my prospect groom, my viewer of posters and ads, all the strangers and passerbys, and even the knowns too. I am aged 2,4, 16 and 60. I am aged all the numbers in between and missing. My existence starts and stops at my private parts. I am a body, not a soul. I am woman not a human. Yes I am the one sitting beside you, serving you, helping you, stopping you, irritating you. I am the expectation of a child’s upbringing.
I am the lesser priority of a parent choosing independence for one of their kids. I am the lesser smile of a mother who gets 2 goods news on a same day. One, that of my sister’s pregnancy and the other, that of my admission in a reputed university.
I am the rare exception of most (if not all) of the above. I am the last traces of hope of my fraternity. No I am not a feminist because I am a woman. I am a feminist because I am an equal human.