On the morning run or walk, she saw two flyers, two posters calling out to her tribe screaming at her about her identity. One of those she saw boasted about her tribal identity, another aligned itself with a majoritarian agenda which she doesn’t like talking about because she never intends to be a politician.
She was listening to a song called Walk on Water by Eminem feat. Beyonce.
She started wondering whether those who put up those posters even ask all members of the tribe they seemed to be representing? Did they build any consensus before fighting among themselves? How much support do they have? Should we not be asked before legislations are passed? Have tribes completely lost their sense of self in urban areas?
She is just another apolitical girl living in a polluted area. She watches parliamentary sessions for leisure, she rants about the constitution and geopolitics without knowing the full information. She never intends to be a journalist either, but when she saw those posters she felt hopeless and her heart howled.
Whenever her heart howls, she writes.
Her mind started shouting if her education is a curse for her? Sometimes even her parents say you care too much. She cares because if she doesn’t, who will?
Then she shrugged all these thoughts aside and moved forward.
She saw men spitting and shouting among themselves, some were keenly observing and sipping tea. She saw a few women walking and talking.
Whenever a young girl raises her voice, she is constantly targeted as “What is wrong with her?”, “Has she gone mad?”. She is supposed to stay quiet and coy, she isn’t supposed to identify.
Often, she thinks while reading newsletters and newspapers, she considers herself a nobody. Often she waves her flag of sovereignty like a typical feminist. The typical nihilistic notion or a passive pacifist? Who is she? You can often find her walking on the streets.
In the parliament, young girls like her don’t exist because they are afraid of aggressive politics. She refers to herself as an afraid, anxious girl, but whenever she writes, she raises a voice with courage with the gloomy clouds of patriarchy and partisan politics looming over her head.
A bird pooped on her shoulder as she was writing all this sitting on a bench as cold as the gaze of an invader. She kept writing, the sun rose and the privileged girl went back home listening to a song called, Sapno Se Bhare Naina by Shankar Mahadevan.