Mistaken Feminism

Feminism is a flagging matter being taken into consideration by so many people around the globe. Every now and then, we encounter feminists coming up with wonderful writings, poems and what not. This concept has indeed been a boon and given women a significant recognition all around. It has shown women a path to walk, to travel.

But it is equally unconvincing to see the budding scenario of so called *netizens* considering themselves as feminists. People on social networking sites are coming up with blogs for women’s respect, self respect and hence exaggerating feminism. I guess many of us are not convinced with this term or maybe couldn’t distinguish. See, just being an opinionated person does not make you a feminist. I have my opinions but I am not a voice for women all around the world. I am a voice for myself. Please do not exercise alterations. #Feminist, #WomanWithThoughts on Instagram does not make you a feminist, as I said. Also, it has nothing to do with *freemale life* which is often interpreted as an independent woman being mislead as single and unmarried. Independence comes when you express yourself and needs no validation or dependence on others. It has nothing to do with your marital status. Knowing the value of feminism and exercising it in right direction is need of the hour afterall it has something even more to do than a designation and anti-male captions.

I believe every woman is a feminist inside, provided she knows her worth and strength. If she knows how to fight for justice. If she knows what it takes to erradicate women related stigmas.

I am a girl and a women to be. I experience weakness inside me when someone says “Get up! Let her sit. She’s a girl” or maybe like ” Don’t carry such heavy bags!” Why? Am I weak enough to lend my seat to a man? Or am I weak enough to carry a bag? No. So I have problem with such type of wrongly interpreted feminism where these stereotypical reservation and thoughts prove to be a weakness rather than my respect. I am equivalent to a man because why not? A man can never overpower a woman or “vice versa” because before a man and before a woman, we are humans. And humans are homogeneous species, right? But the ongoing feminism is rather overpowering the word woman I suppose.

I believe a man and a woman should only be segregated on the basis of testes and ovaries because other than that, what’s different? I mean if a woman gives birth to a child, a man raises him by own which is equally painful. If a woman becomes a mother, a man becomes a father and if a woman becomes a wife, a man becomes a husband.


I tell you, there is something about these airports. 

For me, it is a symbol of beginning. A beginning to your new life after your first take off from your country. Away from your parents and childhood friends, in order to live your dreams. 

And I know, days before leaving, you are happy and chirpy as a bird. Flying with your wings in each and every corner of your little old house and celebrating your success for life ahead. 

But it is that day when you carry your bagpacks and step down on airport, looking at those happy and sad faces everywhere. An old father seeing off his daughter with watery eyes or maybe a mother standing in excitement to meet her daughter after four years. And thats the time you realise what you’re leaving back. 

Smiles on faces, blessings in hearts. Here you walk and walk, stare at the sky and observe the tiny disappearance of a flight with its dingy sound lost in the mist of clouds. It is that moment when you feel the aches of goodbyes. When you realise what it is to leave. Moreover, to accept that maybe you’ll never return or even if you do after years, you’ll never be able to see the same people beside you. Things will change after you go and never be the same. Not the same old man who pats on your back. Not even that lady florist who greets you every morning with a wide fresh smile. And suddenly, you stop. Turn around. And look into the eyes of your parents, speaking the words of pain for letting you go. But they are still  proud of you. You go to them. You go to your mother and wipe her tears rolling down her light wrinkled face. You walk up to your dad and hug him the way you used to do when he used to save you from falling. Oh, that feel after such a long time. 

And finally, you wave and go. But these feelings always remain in your senses. 

After seven long years, you come back again. And as soon as you move towards the airport, you see your old parents waiting for you. There is a sense of realms inside you, afterall you have same people beside you. 

The Hangman.

Everyone in this world has a different life. I am a hangman. This is my life, I give death.

This is what I get to see everyday. These huge jails, these long silent corridors, these years old prisoners sitting behind the iron bars. Well, who are they and what are their stories? What makes them the prisoners?

But why would they tell it to me for I am a hangman, I give death. Moreover, look at them. Do you see them courageous enough to speak about themselves?

Everyday I observe some of them. I see them sitting at the corners, holding pictures of their loved ones and looking at them, in silence. I used to feel bad for them. But now, its normal for all of us. They are not living. They are lost, have no hope, have no life. Its just the matter of breaths. I see them losing.

Honestly, I think the most difficult job is of an executioner (hangman). I have been here since years but even today when I am being asked to hang a prisoner to death, I lose myself. Even today I look at myself, I see death inside.

I remember when two years back I had to hang a boy to death. I looked at him, twenty’s, brown hair and innocent eyes. He made me question myself. *Am I doing justice? No! How can I do this? He is just a beginner in life.* I have a son of his age. I could see my son in him. I could see the fear of death in his eyes. I remember the guard prisoner took him to me and said him “Now you’ll realize how is it to see death next to you. You could have a beautiful life but you are here, paying for your sins”

I could see myself shivering, for the first time. He was a little boy for me, just like my son. But I could not save him from death because I’m a hangman, I give death. Afterall, he deserved the returns of his deeds. When he was being asked his last wish he said, *Give me death. I deserve death. Allah.*

Even today, I cannot forget him. His eyes, which could be the shine of future. His face which could be the symbol of love. And maybe his mind which could be the language of peace.

I have hanged many prisoners to death but never have I felt this bad for someone because it has always been simple, they deserved death because this is what they must have done to someone in their lives. But I did feel bad for that boy. Not because he was hanged but because he was young. He was bright. How could he indulge into such things?

I’m sure he had an answer to all my questions. I’m sure he suffered alot in his life. He was a prisoner and I, am a hangman, I give death.