a neat oily bun and Him

I wish I wasn’t so angry. That’s not what a woman like me should be. No, I need to be invisible.

My thick hair is always clustered in a neat oily bun; my kurta always curves around my body perfectly enough to not show too much nor be unladylike; my fingernails are always trimmed so as to not disrupt the housework; I am always satisfied and never angry.

But today, when He walked into the house, as much as I hate to admit this, I was brimming with frustration. I am in a city far from home, living in a blur of car horns, sweat seeping through my clothing and a cracked phone screen for company. And He brings that woman.

I’m sure they met at some high-fi bar uptown; the kind of place someone like me shouldn’t be found, with those neon lights and the smell of cigarette smoke, I would imagine. But then again, what to expect; she wore a dress with a neckline dipping just below her chest, her toned, glossy legs padding over His living room carpet, and the dark layers of kohl that enlarged her eyes.

I overheard them talking, you know; He gushed about politics and how it’s time for India to be progressive towards women, in that particular tone of His. The one where it’s as if He’s doing everyone a favour, and I almost allow a giggle to escape my lips. Like the state of how us women are treated isn’t right there in front of Him; me.

I’m not stupid to speak up, I know the loudest voices can go unheard if the words appear vacant. But sometimes I wish I'd get out of my right mind just enough to ask Him; is it simply idiocy or a deeper rooted hypocrisy to rave about feminism to a woman as a means to charm her into His bed, while His wife feels the vibrations thrumming through the wooden floor.

Perhaps, it is time to stop being so invisible. Maybe if I let out a stray strand of hair from my neat oily bun, or let my fingernails stay slightly untrimmed, He'd notice.

I push that odd thought out of my mind, and continue washing the haldi of my hands. I wince as the water seeps through a fresh wound.