Ode to the Woman

Preface:

Here in the Motherland we are celebrating the final day of a week-long festival in honor of all Hindu goddesses. So to take my part in the festivities, I am dedicating this to the Woman I have experienced so far in India. 

One of the things that continues to bewilder me about Indian society and culture is the dynamic between men and women. In comparison with the United States, in which the historical dichotomy between the two is pretty self-explanatory, things get pretty warped this side of the Indian Ocean. Since this is the semester I put aside to begin my epic quest to discover who I am, or make myself into who I dream to be, I think it is only appropriate to start by looking at other women around me.

If you are taking the time to read this, then please read it for what it is -- just my own thoughts. They are grossly generalized, and in no ways attempt to account for the entire Indian female population because that would be absurdly impossible. Finally, I am a 20 year old college student, I have never claimed to be totally PC. 

And this is not technically an ode, but I liked the way the title sounded.

Here it goes… 

The Woman is revered and ignored. Respected and beaten. Beautiful and ugly. Strong and silent. 

She wraps herself in a richly intricate sari of fuchsia and turquoise, draped open to expose the whole of her mid-section -- the folds and curves of her belly, hips, the small, or in some cases large, of her back. She is wrinkled, weathered, battered. She is regal, vibrant, strong. 

Her back is stooped from the years of carrying bushels of timber on her sculpted shoulders, metal containers of water balanced on her firm skull. Her head is held high and her eyes stretch into yours, confronting you, challenging you, accepting you.

Rotten teeth from a lifetime of neglect, deeply calloused soles and disjointed toes from the thousands of kilometers trekked. The Woman herds the cattle, the children, the Man. 

She laughs with pure delight and smiles without constraint. Her eyes light the skies when you amuse her and burn into you when there is nothing to be happy about. These eyes have seen it all, and will continue to see more. They remain open to that which surrounds her, but are ready to close when the sun dips low and the strays begin their roaming.

The Woman squats to the ground, butt hanging between her opened thighs, spitting phlegm onto the caked mud at her feet. She adorns her body with layers of jingling anklets, winged nose rings, sparkling earrings, elaborate bracelets, interlocking rings. 

She is labeled, marked, graced by a bindi between her eyes. She is integral to the Hindu rituals -- standing in support of her husband, reminding him of the lyrics to the songs when he falters. A master in the kitchen, she artfully mixes spices and sweets, serving all others first, and then waiting as her husband serves her.

Flinging her magenta scarf around her shoulders she braves the monsoon rains, clinging her purse close to her chest and plowing right through the slowly deepening puddles. No stranger to muddy feet, she slips off her sandals as she enters her apartment, then slowly washes the dirt from between her toes. 

The Woman stares out from her night black burka. Her eyes are alight with life and complemented by her fiery red heeled sandals and hot pink toenail polish. She walks with purpose through the nameless streets, an anonymous figure cloaked in black amidst the sea of colors.

In tight Levis jeans, a Hollister teeshirt, and Converse she meanders down the sidewalk, eyes barely lifting from the illuminated screen of her constantly vibrating Blackberry. She is immune to that which swirls by all around her, only half-heartedly lifting her self-bleached face when an auto-rickshaw slams his brakes in front of her.

The Woman splits a slice of warm, dark chocolate cake with the Man, making eyes across the table and slowly running her hands through her thick black mane, twirling the ends around her manicured fingers. She looks across at him through her mascara-coated eyelashes and straightforwardly challenges a claim he has made, altogether stumping him with her poise and wisdom.

She pours a glass of water from the copper pitcher and gazes out at her students and her classroom, urging them to question, to think, to understand. She picks up her misshapen piece of chalk and begins the afternoon class, ready to teach, ready to be heard.