On the other side of mirror..

The night decorated with the glitter and gold of expensive eid-dresses, the laughter of women, wailing of babies, fails to hide the realities which cannot be seen with the eye but have to be felt with heart. My feet rest on the velvety carpet of a drawing room as the sea of faces which belong to my relatives float around me like proceedings of a liquid dream. The warm sense of joy that comes with anticipation of a festival is dying out like a flame being engulfed by invisible moisture in the air.

To ascertain the locus of my discomfort i observe. Deeply

And I see women.

 The women, far more beautiful than me dimmed out by the purposelessness of their lives. There faces, set to reflect emotions according to the occassions. Yet there is something about their quivering speech, their sad eyes..that tells the tale. A tale that touches your life, in one way or the other.

The tale of an ordinary girl with extra ordinary talent. A potential fashion designer who designs more beautiful dresses with her limited resources than the designer dresses girls drool over, mopping up the tea spilled carelessly by her elder brother who, in the tone of a boss orders her to 'clear it away' The brother the word of whose 'bad character' has been passed on by the 'women in family' in low, subdued tones. The brother who does not let her pursue a course in fashion designing because 'it will give her wings'. Because wings are 'bad for women'. Because women with wings do not make 'good wives'. Women with wings challenge the 'superior judgement' of men in family. And to challenge the 'judgement of a man' is unacceptable, of course. So what if that 'man' is a promiscuous vagabond. He is a 'man'. And hence, exempt from the clauses of 'honor' and 'respect'.

Then there is another tale; of a woman whose face carries an 'eternal smile' of gratitude. She is quiet and submissive. She works in the kitchen all day and raises her kids on the principles taught to her by her husband. Once a year her husband buys her gold and expensive dresses from the designer shops. Her mother in law tells the whole family about this (undeserved )show of love by her son for his (unworthy) wife. Everyone envies the young girl, looking as misfit in the designer clothes as needle in a glove. She smiles politely and never replies once. The terms have been set. She has to appear happy yet withdrawn. She cannot go one step further and 'own' her husband. She is to take the 'gift' as a reward. Not as a gift by someone equal, but by a master. A person, who isn't to be looked in the eye with confidence of a life-partner but instead , has to be thanked by politeness, submissiveness, and a promise of secrecy for a year or until the next season when she will be bought new designer clothes. Pieces of fabric which fail to fit as the time continues its merciless tread, until the 'needles in gloves' take on the appearance of 'cats in sacks'.

Sadly, Its not the bodies but the egos of the 'superior race' that gain weight, and because nature has to balance it out between them and 'their women', the years of service to the family which went un-noticed, the submissiveness displayed during the show of a 'perfect woman' , the years of longing for recognition  conjure up into a ghost of bitterness and hatred clouding the hearts of women, which  with its serpent-like tongue hurts whatever is within reach, or power. Unfortunately , The only person that is within power of an oppressed woman , is another woman.
But of course, on the surface If we are to decide what causes the domestic fights, those with 'superior judgement' hold responsible the useless minds of women busy in conniving conspiracies.
'Women victimise women' , people 'wisely' reflect upon the thousandfold issues which plague life in every other house. A trump card!
Ironically in this part of world where i live, all trump cards are owned and thrown by men. This is just another. And not yet, the most fatal one. You have more to read, more to know. For there are things, beyond the capacity of vision which are to be felt with heart and not seen with eyes.

The tale of a divorcee is poignant. A divorce is the ultimate proof of failure of a woman to make a family work.  It puts a question mark against the chances of finding a respectable life ever again for the woman who bears this 'stigma' while at the same time, it fails to discredit a man in any way , to no surprise.
Divorce is like a disease. These women can be told apart from others. I see her robotic gesture, i observe her polite indifference, i take in her face wiped clean of all emotions, and her ears  perhaps deaf to the disapproval cast at her from the eyes of each on-looker. Rules are there, in hearts. She is to be sympathized with, ocassionally. Yet not to be taken seriously.
'She must be at fault somewhere' is a general belief. ' Woman is the home-maker. She can mould a man if she wants, No man is monster enough'. Wisdom of the superior race prevails again. Murmurs are whispered and judgements are made. 

As if to derail my train of thoughts, a married woman, about twice my age comes forward, attracting all the attention in the 'crowd'.  ' I am wearing designer's suit'  She boasts proudly. Two women beside me click their tongues, there are nodes of approval and some enquiries about whose marvellous creation the dress was.

And sitting in a lonely corner I , do not mock, nor pity the poor woman. but hope, against all hopes that her smile and the smiles of these women around me become as genuine, golden and flashy as their 'designer dresses'. And that, their tales meet endings which , even if they are not good involve their own 'judgement'