Feminism, They Say.

By Sanaa Shaikh

In the forty-three years of her existence, Mira has understood that life is funny.

A humorless, ironic kind of funny, but funny, nonetheless.

As she sits in the dark, hidden away in a gloomy corner of the house, away from prying eyes, she realises this more than ever. The only source of light in the room is the painfully cracked screen of her mobile phone; the same phone she spent months saving money for and her husband spent less than two minutes to break.

Instagram is all the rage these days, she hears. And to some extent, she agrees. Watching people dance to catchy songs and wear colourful clothes on Instagram is a bittersweet way of spending time. But it isn’t all frivolous, atleast not in Mira’s eyes.

‘Feminism’ is one of the things Instagram has taught her. She didnt know what the word meant, or how to even say it correctly. But she figured it out, thanks to her highly useful education till grade eighth, and with the help of her rich mistresses’ daughter, the one who rode an air-conditioned car to school, and complained about how tough her life was when dinner was served a few minutes late.

“Standing up for women means feminism,” the daughter had explained to Mira as simply as she could, and Mira had liked the idea. There was a time when this ‘feminism’ gave her hope.

But she soon realised that hope was as fatal as life-giving as it was. And women like her, the ones who began their day with a curse or two from their husbands and ended it with a slap or more, stood to gain the least from it.

Feminism, they say?

Mira spent her nights looking at bright, colorful images on Instagram. She often saw women, all dolled up in the finest of jewelry, the prettiest of clothes and with a face full of makeup, talk of feminism. Half of the words they said made no sense to Mira, but words, are perhaps the least useful medium of communication. The exquisite couch on which the Internet women sat, the silken sarees they wore, their overly smoothened hair from which light seemed to bounce off and the “modern” accent they spoke in, told Mira more than words ever could.

“Sab alag hote hai, beta.” (Everybody is different, child.)

Mira’s precious, loving grandmother would say…She used to wonder if feminism would have saved her nani from being burnt alive on her grandfather’s pyre. She doesn’t anymore.

The older she grows, the more she understands the essence behind nani’s words. Everybody is different. For better or for worse, she cannot tell. All she knows is that she is different from all the Internet women she sees.

Because what would these Internet feminists say to all her sisters in the village that cannot go a day without being subjected to abuse by their husbands, brothers, and fathers? What do they know of twelve-year-old Rashida, who got married off to a man thrice her age in exchange for a cow and a few gold bangles? Or of Priya and Manu, who were beaten blue and black in front of the entire village because they dared to demand the most terrifying and dangerous weapons of them all, books?

The simple answer is — nothing. They know absolutely nothing of the poor little girls in the country, who lose their dignity and lives simply because they ask for a choice. They cannot even begin to imagine the sorrow of the innumerable girls that think of their entire existence as an unfortunate and irreparable mistake.

Mira doesn’t hate these ‘internet feminists’ for not understanding. She doesn’t hate them for being different either.

Yet, the contrariety of their circumstances cannot be overlooked. The women on the Internet who fight for cigarettes and alcohol and skimpy clothes, and the women in the village who fight to be treated as human beings are NOT the same. The girls who cry because their favourite earrings cannot be found, and the girls who cry because faces get doused in acid are most certainly NOT the same.

Reality slaps her in the face, perhaps harder than her husband does, when she forgets to add salt to the dal. These glamorous women on Instagram, by God’s grace, will never know what it is like to live a day in Mira’s life. They will campaign for feminism in the big cities. They will demand alcohol and cigarettes and cars and sports and lipsticks.

But what about Mira? And Priya and Manu? And Pinky? And the countless others who will ask for a book, maybe even a job? Or respect?

“Sab alag hote hai, beta.” Her grandmother’s voice echoes in her brain as she intently watches the woman on the screen ramble, but her words fall deaf in Mira’s ears, for she is too busy noticing the myriad of differences between them. Mira is convinced that two entirely different worlds exist — one where women fight for a good life, and the other, where women fight for survival.

And feminism, they say.

By Sanaa Shaikh