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What if someday, I just start molesting the boys and men in the street out there? What if I just try to grab their balls or try to put my hands inside your pants? What if I start swivelling my hands on your chest and grab your nipple and squeeze it tightly? What if I just start pointing out on the erected penis bulging out of your pants in public? What if I just point out that white stain on your pant and start laughing at you, saying that you masturbated just now? What if I just kidnap you, someday, and then try to touch all your parts with my hands and knife, and then just throw you in some deserted area, all naked? What if you scream for help and nobody listen to you? What if everybody just enjoys the scene for a few minutes and just walks away? How will you feel? It’s a simple question. How will you feel?

Oh! Maybe you don’t know. I will tell you how it feels. IT FEELS GOOD! It feels so good, when I stand there at the bus stop, every morning, and you stare at me continuously. It feels good, when you lick your lips, looking at my breast. It feels good when you try to touch my private parts on the road, when I wait for the traffic signal, standing next to your car. It feels good when you just do the actions through your hands as if you are playing with my breast. I feel proud looking at you, that you aren’t scared of anyone. It feels good, looking at your hungry eyes, waiting for just one fall of my ‘chunri’. It feels good, when you get horny, looking at my thighs. I feel good, when you wait for the wind to blow, so that, you can peek inside my skirt. I feel good, looking at your happiness, when you put that dirty hand of yours on my butt, by mistake but, intentionally. I feel good when you imagine yourself with me on a bed. Just like you, I feel good, you know!

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My mum fought for feminism in her day so instilled in me the importance of equality. She taught me so much about women.

Chris Evans

The red blood that you term as dirty, which is the creation of God itself, that you feel tainted about, in the name of religion, which is man-made, I feel good. Every month, when I feel the pain in my abdomen. Sometimes, I am not able to stand on my legs and not even walk a few steps. When I go to buy sanitary napkins in a shop and you give me a cunning smile, I feel proud of you. I feel like praising you in front of the whole country and say, “These are the men of our country.”

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Respect is an explanatory term for one’s existence. It doesn’t need any other support, it can stand alone. I never expect that from you but, you always do. And as I am your daughter, I am your wife, I am your mother, I never move back from giving you the honour. Do you think it’s important? Yes, you think! You think that where I will go. You think that even if I muster up some courage to take any step, society is there to judge me. Ultimately, I will come to you. Actually, you are wrong, you are very wrong about it! When I can stand for my husband against the whole society then, I am enough audacious to stand for my own. But, I choose to maintain your dignity and expect the same from you, doesn’t matter whether I am five or twenty-nine or sixty-three, doesn’t matter whether I am a maid or a doctor or a policewoman or a businesswoman, doesn’t matter whether I am rich or poor. I expect the same!

“When I’m raped, people say that I’ve lost my honour. How did I lose my honour? My honour is not in my vagina. It is a patriarchal idea that my rape will defile the honour of my community. I’d like to tell everyone, why did you place your community’s honour in a women’s vagina? We never did that. It is the rapist who loses his honour, we don’t.”

-Kamla Bhasin

The short skirt that I wear. The crop top that I wear. The bra that shows. The breast and the butt that, I flaunt. The legs that I show-off. The beer that I drink. The slang words that I say. The cigarette that I smoke. The late-night party that I enjoy. The man with whom I flirt. The sex that I revel. You. The judgemental you. The irrational you. The aroused you. The capricious you. The injudicious you. I am fed up of you.

When your sister, daughter, girlfriend or wife tell you about their problems. Do you remember, what you say to them? You ask them to ignore all the things. And then you say that you are a man, a strong man. Why don’t you just go out and shoot their dirty eyes? Why are you waiting for them to just suppress your woman? Are you afraid? Or do you want me to go? I take permissions from you because I feel that I am a part of you but, you think that I am bounded to you.

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When I talk about feminism, you say that, instead of breaking the iron shackles, I have started cutting your head, now. I never did that. I know some of us to use you but, it’s not all of us, just like not all of you but, few of you. I know there are men that try to understand us but, sometimes, they don’t stand by our side. I am not crying for your help. I am not asking you for any war but, stand for the right, stand for your morals.

Feminism… I think the simplest explanation, and one that captures the idea, is a song that Marlo Thomas sang, ‘Free to be You and Me.’

Ruth Bader Ginsburg

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