A Choice of the Feminine
It was Women's Day. A house-wife was sitting with her daughter on the diwan cot. The sun was blazing its heat outside, some of it pouring into the house from the half-open door. She had finished cooking. The tip of her forehead was dripping with sweat. It decorated the bottom of her scalp like a paapidi billa. That was normal, she told herself. Her body ached with tiredness. That was also normal, she told herself. She was draped in turquoise, a colour that clung to her tired body in the form of a cotton saree. Normal. But today was going to be different. After all, it was Women's Day. She sat with a quiet expectation, more like a spark of hope swelling in her chest. Maybe today she would be appreciated. Maybe today was the day she didn't need to keep the sunlight out, keep the windows closed, dishes clean, floor spotless, curtains soft, bones working, heart shut out. You would think she was being forced to overwork. You would think she didn't love her fami...