Bad Women

I am a woman. 

I am a bad woman.
I talk to girls. I’m a bad woman.
I talk to boys! I’m a very, very bad woman.

I wear dresses. I wear skirts. I’m a bad woman.
I wear jeans and full-sleeved shirts as well. I’m still a bad woman.
I sometimes wear shorts with crop tops with my hair open and my nails painted the colour of my eyelashes. I’m a very, very bad woman.
When I was out in Delhi near Barakhamba Road the other day, I felt like the chai waala was staring at my legs as if he’s never seen those body parts before. It’s my fault. I’m a bad woman.
I am overweight. I don’t care enough. I’m a bad woman.
I have the skin every other girl wants, my body is wanted and loved. I’m a bad woman.  

Sometimes in class, I’m asked questions. And I answer. I’m a bad woman.
Sometimes, my voice raises to a maximum to shield myself and my sisters. Or my girlfriends. I’m a bad woman.
Sometimes, I tell my parents and my neighbours that girls with girlfriends are beautiful no matter that they have girlfriends. I’m a bad woman.
Many-a-times, I try to fight gender norms by walking out without pepper spray in my purse and politeness in my voice. These days are the ones where I’m feeling powerful and confident. So unladylike. I’m a bad woman.

When I’m out with my friends, I wear eyeliner. I’m a bad woman.
I listen to Taylor Swift with them. Ugh, I’m the same old typical catty woman who writes confessional, hateful poetry on her exes�"which reminds me, I have exes! Such badness, I tell you.
But my preferences change like London’s weather and a second later, we’re singing along to Swag Mera Desi at the top of our lungs which are sugarcoated with the smoke of cigarettes we inhaled on the way to the busiest club in town. Bad women.  

It was a busy street, you know. But the alley was dark. Only busy imprinting my screams on its walls, fading them out like all the others before.
After the sickening b*****d was done with me, he asked, “Did you enjoy it?” with a repulsive grin on his mutated face, I could only close my eyes shut, there was noise escaping my lips. He stepped on my wrist, and a little louder this time, he repeated his question. I didn’t reply again.
I didn’t enjoy it. I’m a bad woman. But I was afraid to answer him. I am a bad woman.

When I was twelve, my science teacher made a very sexist remark on how girls can never be good at her subject. And I shouted in the midst of everything that she was terribly wrong. She shook her head and laughed my idiocy.
A week later, my art teacher said art didn’t discriminate. Art loved. He made me love it.
I’m still asked why paintbrushes call out to me and Pluto continues to be the Roman God of Death, not a planet I need to learn facts about. I hate to generalize, but this is what I’ve grown seeing: science for boys. Engineering for boys.
Art for all.
I’m a bad woman.

I think girls are beautiful. I think our way of walking and our way of talking and our way of being is absolutely stunning. I think we’re gorgeous when there are teardrops ruining our mascara and when we’re cracking jokes, up on live television. I think we’re always gorgeous. I’m a bad woman.
I also believe with all my heart that men are beautiful. Handsome. I think they carry themselves flawlessly and they’re very cute with their hands in their pockets and backs leaning against walls. I think they’re phenomenal when they’re quoting Maya Angelou and when they’re kicking footballs in each other’s faces. I’m a bad woman.
I think I like both. I’m a bad woman, sheesh, I’m the worst woman in town!  

It sometimes boggles my mind how men and women are considered puzzle pieces. That they can fit inside each other perfectly. You know? Men equals strength therefore women equals weakness. Men equals emotional deadness so women equals way too emotional, always crying, break down on the smallest of things. Men fall in love with women (and show their affection in the most heartless ways possible) and women fall in love with men (and show their affection by continuing to be in love even with “w***e” and “b***h” branded upon their skull�"and their bodies�"by their own “lovers”). It really boggles me how people seem to have completely shunned the idea that men will cry when they’re beaten, or when they’re scared, or when they’re told to like blue when they actually like pink. And they will not become any less of a man. It really boggles me how women cannot fall in love with women. Or men with men. Or women with men who do not identify with being men or with women who do not identify with being women. It really boggles me how difference is looked down upon.

I think babies are the softest, loveliest beings on the planet, and I’d love to have one someday. I’m a bad woman.
I think babies are ugly and the thought of carrying one inside me makes me want to tear my skin. I’m a bad woman.
I stand up for myself. I’m a bad woman. I don’t. Still bad.
I wear makeup. I don’t. Bad either way.

I walk. I talk. How dare I? I’m a bad woman.
I breathe. I exist.

I’m a woman. So I’m a bad woman.