You open twitter. You feel nauseous for recurring trigger warnings. 6 year old. 22 year old. 40 years old. Infants. Children. Unmarried women. Married women. You still scroll down. The woman in you makes you cautious. And you keep scrolling until it drains you out. You stumble on justifications. You keep staring at the blame. Your neck starts aching. The woman in you is angry. You let her be. She thinks you’re in the wrong place.
You want someone to listen to you. To share your rage and agony and your womanhood. You text to a friend. She says similar things and then the discussion digresses to your own daily life trivialities. You feel remorse for the woman in you. You feel she’s in the wrong place.
You get yourself ready for college. Your mind still wandering at places you don’t want it to be. You try to think something else. You fail. You think of discussing the women experience with your students. You talk a lot. To calm the inner rage. You say things to settle your inner turmoil. No one joins you. You feel alienated with your own gender. You break down things for them to grasp. You want them to walk outside of the prescribed frame. They remain silent. Except for a few heads you see nodding. You feel you’re burdening them with a discourse they might never have. Things they might not be able to say aloud. You feel sorry for the woman in you. You feel you’re in the wrong place.
You return back home. You make yourself tea strong enough to let you have a grip. You want to attend a friend’s wedding. You never needed a permission. But this time you do. Because its not about going out its about reaching back home safe. So your mother decides to give a pick and drop. Because your brother is out playing volleyball. The woman in you is angry. You’re made to feel you’re in the wrong place.
You went for shopping. The woman in you already feels unsafe going out. It has always been a wrong place.
You’re in a rickshaw. You hear the conversation between two elderly ladies about the recent rape cases. Familiar discourse. You don’t want to hear them anymore. But you have to. You see the rage coming. You want to say things. You don’t. You choose not to. Because you’re one of them they’re despising. You see the rage slowly changing in despair. The woman in you feels tired. You think you’re in the wrong place. Yet again.
You want to spit things out. You want to write. Because you can’t read. Even if you try. You write. Then you erase. You write again. You think of euphemisms. You think of neutral terms. Your mind says you’re betraying the woman in you. You want peace. You want to calm the inner rage. You stop writing. You sit alone for some time and think again. You want a distraction. You find it. The woman in you feels betrayed. You feel you’ll always be in the wrong place.