She will pierce into that mirage of illusions. She will strip you off that disguised identity and put you naked in front of your own ego. She is a hazard, a natural phenomenon. But she will not stop until you transform her into a disaster. Before she jeopardises the idea of your very existence, kill her.
Before she challenges the illusory norms of the civilisation you hold so close, destroy her; don’t let her consume you. Because, you won’t be able to pause her rhythm. She will make you her voice. Before you have to go through the pain of strangling her after every turn on the road, kill her. This warrior was her identity, much before you tried to give her one.
She never belonged to any tribe; she was a rebel even before you helped her walk the first step. She was not born to smell the roses of your neighbour’s garden, she was the unusual flower that bloomed in the cactus after seasons of neglect.
She will run in your veins and make you speak in a language you never learnt before. She will make you remember things, you never thought you knew. Do not try to comprehend the reason of her lucidity. She was never born, neither would death call her home. No season would find solace in her, neither would any wind carry her away. She is a fragment of a quest that knows nothing about destination. She was risen from a place that causes tectonic plates to shamble. You will try to bury her, but how will your coffin contain herIJ She does not belong to a physical body, what will you cremateIJ She has nothing she calls her ‘own’, what will you put in her graveIJ You will try setting her on fire, but even on her pilgrimage to death, her flames will unite with many others. She is a thought. She will burn, only to cause her flames merge with the fire of another. When thoughts melt, absolute reality takes form; all that remains in the discarded ruins is the recipe of, a disaster.
(Charvee Sharma is a student who loves to write on women issues)