Disillusionment, mostly.

There are voices in my head. Like in everyone else’s, I must add; lest it seems like I’m trying to make a spectacle out of something very simple, very every day. Some of these voices are clearly mine, some someone else’s, a few are of my friends, but most are of the unknown. See that’s the thing about the unknown. Despite being a nobody, in-spite of not having a contour, it seems to have all the power in the world to conjure up voices. And it needs very little as feedstock — a rag lying on the street, the smell of freshly washed hair, a photo, a drum beat, a word, the clock by the bedside, the almirah in the corner. Voices that never existed will come to life, voices that would typically take at least a 100 fights would already be at your door, voices of the oppressor will camouflage like it’s of the weak, and voices of the laughing will cry in your ears. No, we mustn’t underestimate the power of the unknown.

Being a Dalit woman, and I don’t choose to represent all of my sisters here, is no easy feat. It sometimes feels little like the entire weight of the world, and all of its voices combined, is on your shoulders. Other times it feels a little like walking on knife’s edge, balancing some very kind opinions of you either being a loose woman or an angry bitch. A few other times, it tastes like betrayal, because your own men and your own women sometimes hate you. Sometimes, it feels very savarna-ish, what with all the co-workers nonchalantly discussing caste, and your so-called allies sucking privilege like it’s the last fuck. It feels like the ones in ‘solidarity’ will never, ever get it. A few times, it feels a little ugly, because, baby, savarna skin and savarna everything, is so much more desirable. But most times, it feels illicit, because, baby, your skin and your everything, is so much more disposable.

In the middle of a work day, it feels scary; because mundane, soul-less capitalism is screwing with your sense of self-worth. In the wee hours of the morning, it feels like erosion; because a toxic soul comes out of nowhere and takes away so much of your generosity, and violates your space, all in the name of love. Why and how does something like this happen, and the world watches, just ready, so ready, to believe all the lies? Could it be hate? That which is cooked, and baked, and sautéed, all ready for instant consumption? Hate that comes with exquisite ingredients, catered to target all that you are — Dalit, woman, autonomous, loud perhaps, questioning most likely, and resilient most often. Is that what it is? Is that it?

It feels like loneliness; because the politics of equality is not really what it seems to be, and the ones propounding it are not what they promise to be. It feels like a battle where everyone is cheering for you but is also making plans to sleep with the enemy. And the enemy and the everyone could look very, very alike as well; who’s to say who’s who? Mostly though it feels intimidating; ’cause you’ve no fucking idea who’s going to throw the first stone in the name of fair dialogue. Weird concoctions of misogyny, caste, class, jealousy, condescension, blatant privilege, and everything else come to the fore, because, ‘calling out’.

But it’s all just disillusionment, really.

With people, with grandeur promises, and utterly disappointing egoism. With politics that reeks of hate for one’s own. With friends whose ally-ship is seasonal, superficial. With mentors who teach but never follow. With men who talk bell hooks and Phule at length but will find every way to justify their violence and their sense of entitlement. With women who will be all hue and cry for a Nirbhaya but won’t raise a finger for my sisters who face violence most of their lives. With allies that cry louder and harder, much harder than their oppression, lest they be forced to confront their privilege. With everything that is only just virtual and nothing real.

Although rarely, it feels a little like achievement. The fact that so much could happen (and so much more will) but you’re still standing. Everything, just about everything, can crumble but you’ll find a ladder, or a rope, or a godforsaken shovel and climb your way out. On some moonlit days, it feels a little hopeful; because a few friends and sisters will say and do things that you can hold close, close to your heart. Maybe even find a little box and treasure it. Some mornings, the women who came before you come to your mind; the women who made you so, and the women who continue to inspire, lead, and show what compassion really means. And once in a while, you come across men, who are compassionate, kind and respectful. But most importantly, sometimes, it feels a little beautiful; all that you are, with all your complexities, with all your quirks. It feels authentic, like as though you’re special, maybe even a little precious.

Sometimes.