A Piece To The Woman Who Says She’s Not A Feminist
Before I begin this piece, I offer an invocation.
My people have a long history
of calling out names in front of holy fires,
of reminding deities of their power,
of demanding reluctant blessings,
a gentle nudge to force them to pay heed.
Today, my invocation stands a little different,
for I offer it in front of you; tiny sparks of revolution
and change, fires simmering, angry, looking
for cracks to burn through, just looking for
a hint of gasoline in the air to burst forth.
Today, my invocation is less a call for help
and more a rallying cry, it is tinder thrown
into your slumbering embers, it is anger
smeared on your pale faces, it is courage
spelt out for you and me.
This invocation is incomplete, it is unsteady,
it is marred by names history has relegated as
‘anonymous’- it is unfair in its arbitrary namings,
and it is so little in its capability to encompass
all that it should be capable of saying.
Today I invoke Rani Laxmibai, Jind Kaur,
Quidisa Begum and Rani Chenamma- women
bound by tradition and its trappings, regents
never given their due for the way they changed
lives with power that was never named their own-
Today I invoke Leila Seth, Meenakshi Arora,
Indira Jaising and Flavia Agnes- firebrands
that took law, a man’s law, and broke it down,
taming a dragon till it stopped asking for a woman’s
sacrifice, till they could ride it across the sky.
Today I invoke Kavita Krishnan, Nivedita Menon,
Reetika Khera and Bela Bhatia- mistresses of words
and the witches they would’ve bound at stake had
they known the magic of knowledge they sprinkled
like a matchstick thrown at a petrol station.
Today I invoke names I don’t know- the many
women who have been relegated as punctuation
marks in the history of man- women on whose
broken backs and twisted arms I can climb to
rise up and demand what is my due.
Today I invoke my mothers and grandmother
and their mothers- soft magic that learned how
to attack when it had to protect its own, shackles
that became adornments as they were worn down
with each throw of hand and each jump of heavy skirts.
Today I invoke all the sacrifices made, all the
hopes shattered, all the dreams carefully undreamed
and locked into boxes for people like me to unlock
with the keys made of blood, sweat, and bones plucked
from the exhausted bodies that marched before me.
Today, I invoke the anger I am made of, the revolutions
I am shaped of, the stories behind the fact that I can
stand up here and be heard louder than just my voice-
today, I invoke the very struggles that allow you to
think yours, and hence my, feminism is merely a ‘choice.’
