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The Monologue
When a Woman Becomes a Time Bomb
There comes a time in everyone’s life, when you find that the fight inside you is over. The fire, to get up and kick bullshit in its pouty face and walk away, abandons you. That is the will I’m talking about. I think I am exhausting mine.
“So much for the fucking modern-Indian-career-girl crap,” I mutter, adjusting the bright red bindi on my forehead. I catch my reflection in the broken mirror when I bend down to pick up my dupatta which I had flung across the floor.
Shit. I even look like my mother. My forehead creaks as my soul winces at this thought. I give it a little mental whip, straighten myself and leave the bathroom. Oh, the mirror? I flung that too on the floor when I entered the bathroom. It seemed like necessary action then to calm my clattering nerves.
Nevermind, some sneaky servant is going to pop in to clean up after I leave. Don’t worry, we are very rich. We live in a big house. We have many cars. Believe me, I can walk around breaking every precious artefact displayed in this museum of a house and nobody will bat an eyelid. My father will have it replaced. Told you we were rich.
I start walking in my usual gait, legs apart and chest out. It worked everytime.
“Shayoni! Walk like a lady, for God’s sake. You look like a man stuck in a woman’s…
