It was Women’s Day. There was a nip in the air, but the day glowed with warmth. A brighter shade of blue painted the sky, as if the sun celebrated the aura of women. She looked out the window, staring at something insignificant. Her phone chimed endlessly, disrupting the calm. The flyers that came with the newspaper announced ‘gifts, new possibilities, and getaways for women.’ There was a special edition dedicated to women achievers. The label “women achievers” struck her as ironic, as if accomplishments were unusual for women. She tucked the newspaper away, but the fuss about the day lingered, like a bitter aftertaste.
The cabinet, covered in her husband’s and children’s certificates and trophies, seemed to smile at her. Amidst magnificent achievements, a small, unnoticed plaque appeared to look at her, longing for acknowledgement. She received it for winning first prize in a cookery competition. Did she accomplish nothing else? She worked as a programmer, working both from home and at home. The job rewarded her financially, yet satisfaction eluded her.
She fit perfectly into her marital home, like a missing puzzle piece. Tending to everyone’s needs, she noted each preference. The desire to be loved, appreciated and perfect stripped her of her identity. She felt like the last piece of orange squeezing itself into the cardboard box, its pulp dripping away. Yet she drifted through time with a smile plastered on her face like a tattoo.
Lately, she felt stifled, much like a garment straining to escape a packed suitcase.
She didn’t chase big aspirations. Her desire was small: to be true to herself and let the brief moments bring her peace.
Was she forced to adjust? Would she face condemnation for being herself? The answer was no. There were no rules. But the unwritten expectations etched in the walls lurked in silence. When she stumbled, she wasn’t scolded, but was indirectly reminded of her position. The fear of her family distancing themselves from her haunted her.
She slowly folded her wings and entered the cocoon of perfection. The walls closed in on her, the darkness sucking her spirit. But she survived – not thriving but just alive.
The floral drapes fluttered in the air, and she caught a fleeting glimpse of her daughter. Wrapped in a duvet, she was asleep, probably dreaming.
Fear washed over her at the thought – was her daughter mirroring her silence? Was she teaching her endurance at the cost of happiness? And she made a choice. Her daughter deserved to live on her own terms, and so did she. She decided to remain true to herself. On Women’s Day, she gifted herself a future of peace and the freedom to be her true self.
She plugged in her earphones. The headset that echoed voices and instructions at work now played music. She lay on the bed, wrapped her hand around her daughter and closed her eyes. The music soothed her nerves. She smiled, not a forced smile but a gentle one, and it spoke of the peace that bloomed within.
The air felt warmer. The day moved from rush into a sense of calm. Seema shifted on the couch. There was a pause, and then the RJ spoke, “I hope you all liked the story. I wish all the female listeners a happy Women’s Day. Here’s RJ Veer signing off.”
Seema turned off the radio. Who was the protagonist in the story? Seema seemed to relate to her on a personal level as if she had known her for years. The protagonist reminded Seema of her mother, grandmother, friend, sister and almost every woman she knew. At times, her reflection seemed less her own and more theirs, as if she were becoming them. They were all strong women who held the fort for decades, but shared a quality: they were never true to themselves. They always put up a facade to evade distress at home, trading self-worth for peace.
A year back, Seema’s sister ended her marriage. Weren’t her sacrifices enough? Seema’s mind raced with thoughts. Her marriage invitation gleaming under the yellow light caught her attention.
“Seema weds Tarun,” it read.
She clasped the card so tightly that her nails dug into the names printed on it. Sweat pooled on her palm, leaving a murky imprint on the card. Was she doing the right thing? Wasn’t she entering the same quagmire as the others?
Her phone chimed, interrupting her thoughts.
“There’s a surprise waiting for you at the door.” Read Tarun’s message.
She walked to the door, picked up a bouquet and a box of chocolates.
“Happy Women’s Day, my love.” Tarun sent another message.
She smiled, a rose tint spreading across her face. The moment passed, and the butterflies fluttering in her stomach rested, and caution took over.
Tarun loved her. He would treat her with dignity. Or maybe he wouldn’t.
Before she could find an answer, the faint aroma of the flowers soothed her nerves. Caressing the petals, she promised herself she would always bloom. She gifted herself a future of self-belief and authenticity. Utimately, it was a day well celebrated.
