The year is 2024. Indians have been on the moon. Indians have acquired weapons of mass destruction so they are cool military wise. Indians have Target and a shit ton of McDonalds. Indians have cinema with CGI. Indians have won the academy award. Indians are famous in Hollywood. And Indians have wives with black and blue faces, Indians have daughters who cower in their own skin, sisters who run and run, and Indians have mothers who sacrifice mental and physical health for their roles.
Indians have mantels where they put women. Indians have women mothers and women daughters and women sisters and sometimes even women wives. So, Indians have respect for women because of the women daughters and the women mothers and the women sisters and the sometimes women wives. Indians call their nation the motherland probably because they walk all over it. Indians are proud of their women and all the training that went into it. Indians know honour and it resides between a functioning uterus and an unbroken hymen.
Indians respect their women. Indians protect their women. Indians kill their women.
The year is 2024, and I am angry. I have been angry for as long as I can remember. My anger is not particular to me. The anger is a wave that ripples through all femme consciousnesses. The anger comes and stirs up the hurt and the pain and the humiliation. We think things will get better if we just keep the fight going. And we fight. We rebel. We put on a face and walk out into the world with walls up and feet down. And then some man thinks there is an example to be made and we are angry all over again. And day in and day out we go on with our lives. No wonder all of us have back pain. Holding on to a tsunami inside will do that to you. Our bodies are up for debate, our health is up for debate, our choices are up for debate, and now even our hormonal levels are up for debate. And seeing that we have so much anger, we really should be killing more people out there. But we aren’t. We are the victims splattered across newspapers and instagram stories. We are the victims things happen to but who can say who is really responsible. Right? We are news ratings and content performance. We are eye candies and baby dolls. We are goddesses when needed. We are more than dog but less than cow. We are seething.
The year is 2024, and they tell us to be grateful it’s India and not a country where women are oppressed worse. They tell us we are better off. They expect us to be happy. Unironically.
And our hearts weep for our sisters elsewhere. And the anger ripples again. The fight isn’t just Indian, but that’s where I am and that’s where I can make a difference. So I put on my bitch face and speak up. I resist also because I can. I have the privilege of it. I can speak up and not have major consequences in life. I draw on strength from all the others in the sisterhood who stand up and plant their feet and refuse to budge. When even one of us stirs the pot, it’s sure to come to a boil eventually.
We don’t need the death penalty for crimes we know won’t get solved. We don’t need Raksha (protection) or Bandhan (bond). We don’t need an apology. We don’t need all men panels making opinionated decisions about our lives, our bodies, our rights, our freedom. India did get independence, but its daughters are still shackled, wrecked with fear, chock full of anxiety, sporting battle scars without and within. We keep getting shown our place, but our place is exactly where we are. Exactly where we choose to stand. Exactly where the other half of the population stands.
The year is 2024, and you should be angry too.