Love and Hate – A powerful, yet the dangerous depiction of a woman’s life.

Love and Hate – A powerful yet dangerous depiction of a woman’s life.

It is constant vibration in the back of my brain reminding me of the blissfulness this world had bought me. There is silence now,  every voice has died down. Every soul has now gone to bed. And as I sit on the balcony, I realize, “I am not dead”.

It has fascinated me to think what death would look like, what real suffering might feel like, and what this heart would go through as I would leave my body. I remember now, how I spent my day today.

The mundaneness of this day could not be any more significant. Yet, in a weird way, this day has been good to me. Or that might just be because I don’t know what good is anymore. I woke up, prayed to my lord asking him for nothing but love, as I went on to live a day that could show me none. In the beginning, everything looks fine. You go on with your daily tasks, the work that should be done by individuals will now be done by you. “You are women”, they say, and as they say this you are reminded that not a single task you complete today would be in name of love; but would just be an obligation for your gender. Such a gender is of no use, I think, that sucks out the life from life, and a gender that makes you no more than a slave. Of what use is this gender if it’s only significant thing is that it has to suffer. At these times, I too think that death couldn’t be worse from this. It obviously couldn’t be, because the knife stabbing through my tissue repeatedly could not have been worse from this life long hell. This is what I meant, you start off great but as the day progresses you see that your life is nothing but a mere reflection of those before you. It is not significant, neither is it going to be different. You are just a girl and the only use society could make of you was to be pretty and the other to serve. 

“Shame on you”, they will say, when you make mistake again. As if the shame was something that they could literally touch, like glass making them bleed. But they didn’t bleed, even though I wished they would, and instead you end up drying your body of any respect it had left. Honor they say you will protect and you must protect it. But in truth what they mean for you to do is to look at yourself as meat that the lion is soon to eat. And then you would protect honor, you would protect shame, you would protect all those things that mean nothing to you but more to god. I hope he doesn’t look at me right now, maybe this might upset him. Maybe even He is a She, perhaps it is mary, or some other goddess as she looks upon me with kind eyes. I hate this feeling of being in love and having to suppress it just because of the probability that love might not be pure. At the same time, who even gets love? Not the ones that work their whole lives, not the ones that protect honor, but true love has only one definition in the world that I live and that is lust. As for this kind of love, there are other women in the harem who receive it. I pity them sometimes but also I am jealous of them. It seems to me that they have no shame, they have no emotions that suggest them to care about real life. In some awfully weird way, they seem to be more close to god. For they have no honor to protect and all their respect is of no use.  Maybe that is just me, perhaps all women are bleeding inside but and no ointment can heal us. 

But as I kneed bread every evening, it isn’t in me to kneed it with hate. I cannot do that. Although I am angry, although I am suffering, it is not humanly possible to feed someone with these emotions inside me. What is this heart, I think, it can’t let me live but at the same time, it cannot let anything but love escape its chambers. This womanhood seems to me like a cage. But the cage that holds us inside is a cage that sometimes never let us out. However angry a woman might become she might never become angrier than a man. A man might forget god for a minute and hold no love in his heart at the same time, but for a woman to do this, it like carving her heat from its chambers. It is this love probably that keeps me going on, that makes me believe in a world that seems unbelievable. Life is like living in a river, silently waiting to meet the ocean, but who knows, half of us keep on turning back in the river waters for a lifetime. Never being able to meet the love that awaits us, never listening to soft subtle sounds of the ocean that call us home.

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