A woman’s body is an object. Ahem. Yes, it is an object worthy of depiction as art, poetry, music, and every finer thing that takes us closer to life. A woman’s body speaks languages that can be translated through imagery, similes, and emotions that are expressed in their most beautiful form. A woman’s heart is an atelier, where myriad hues take shapes as intriguing as her anatomy. When a woman speaks her mind, she’s called loud, or outspoken. When a woman submits or surrenders or sacrifices, she’s called dumb. When a woman does a job, she becomes an activist. Maybe, because she is powerful. Maybe, because a creature which can give birth has to have something different about her, and not everyone embraces differences and changes positively. So, she becomes the symbol of power she may never wield, because the only power she truly believes in is the power of love. She is fragile and delicate. We are naturally inclined to keep all fragile things under our protection and care. She’s God’s favourite creation, and that’s why, she’s fragile.

It is like watching a crystal ball float in the air. One day, when the crystal shatters, there is a lot of noise followed by a silence. That way, she’s quite the opposite of a storm which destroys everything. Instead, she builds herself back from the nodes where she shattered and nourishes herself back with the help of silences. It is a waste of time to underestimate a woman, because only a woman can truly empathise with another woman. A woman is mostly soul, coated with flesh. But her thin skin is her shining apparel. Everyone wants to covet it, but most end up scarring it. But then, she understands beauty differently, so she transforms her scars into jewels. Ah, she’s a sorceress. She is made of magic. She may seem tangible, but her feelings are not. It’s only when she encounters facetiousness that she befriends profoundness. Facetiousness always has a face, it always has a body, and it always has hidden, lacerated wounds. The wounded know too much about bodies, but self-absorption deludes them into ignoring souls.

Unfortunately, there are more bodies and less souls today. Objectivity has become synonymous with heartlessness. ‘Woman’ was all heart, and now she’s an objective, she’s an adjective. She’s not ‘regarded’ as a priceless object anymore. She has been devalued. But she becomes many people along her journey, and makes herself up as she goes. That is because she is well aware of the non-existence of another God who will let his (or her) most prized possession float unaware and admire her from afar. A woman is a ‘thing’ of beauty, after all.


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