A woman, often referred to as ‘weaker’ sex on the basis of less muscle power bestowed upon by the creator and for anatomical reasons.
How weak really is a woman? Is it the sacrifices she makes in a lifetime for her family that makes her weak or is it her compassion towards everything she touches during her existence that tags her into the feeble category?
Decades post freedom we now live an era where rape is as common as falling in love. Molestation has become a perpetual reality to our regular routine. Women are held liable for provocation of rape and other molestation suffered given to their ‘inappropriate clothing or body language’. Does the sufferings make her the weak one or determination to never look back?
Criticism never ceases as she is forced to change her shoes. The innumerable transitions through the generations have never been able to reshape the modern figure of an ideal woman. As a woman emerges amongst the shadowed thoughts towards the throne for claiming her birth right, someone, somewhere always rises to pull her down further deep in the muck of our ‘modern’ society.
She ages in the world of plastics where the expectations leave her childhood hollow. Growing up chokes her into imitating the image of a ‘perfect’ woman she should never be or snatches her innocence for the beauty bestowed upon her becomes a dark stained curse.
She gets tagged as an ‘outcast’ for fighting for her love and her family boycotts its own blood for the ‘society’. No one considers a woman’s sacrifice and pain for choosing between her blood and soul. Few choose to let go of their heart and spend an eternal lifetime with a stranger on their blood trail. Is it the strapping sensitivity that weighs down her chances of being sturdy in society or the perception?
The frail soul suffers silently for she cares as she walks down the path of sullen tears with a smile on her face. She conceives a child who later becomes man-enough to drown her silent pleas in the waves of his strong words when the tempest touches her soul sisters. Without fail, she gets up each morning to cook and keep the surroundings friendly as we rush out of our houses thinking being a housewife is an ‘easy’ job. She slaughters her ambition for the ‘welfare’ of her children and husband which is overlooked by the society for she does not ‘bring food’ but bakes it. As a home-maker she is a chef, cleaning lady, nurturing robot and in some cases ‘punching bag’.
Working ladies on the other hand are no exceptions to the society, though, they are tagged under a distinct category. The names vary from ‘heartless’ to ‘overly-ambitious’ to ‘negligent’ with a hint of ‘loose- character’ in it as the bosses and colleagues make a pass at her. Bringing food for home comes at a hefty price for cooking is a ”natural ability” which should be handed down to her through the generations of miniscule minded people.
The shrill voices are often unheard over the bold husky ones; a price paid for proper conduct which reflects the rugged imitation of her lifetime. Is the woman struggling with the conceited peace or the world who throttle the unheard for it has feared her uncanny strength through the ages? I guess the feeble symbol of love is just as strong as she can be…