In all the best of novels, the women accept their fate with such a resolute faith that it really can make a woman feel she is being a bad wife because she has reached the end of her patience.
I wish I could be like the heroines of Indian novels and movies; they even have to endure rape as if it is something one has to be dignified about. The point is here in India, the wife is supposed to never complain, never doubt the man’s word, and certainly never speak of such matters in public. To do so is undignified.
The problem with all of this is that stuffing down the truth, far into our bellies just makes us fat with discomfort. Uncomfortable lies about who and what we are, what we think, and that we feel. Not even what we feel, first of all just that we feel. That makes us exist.
Which challenges the whole fragile male dominance.
I am so sick of the failure to use logic in daily life. I am so sick of not being heard. I am so tired, and pale from having my needs neglected. I waited a long time for those dreams of divorce papers pending and that we could sail off into a happy future together. Truth is, the only person who wants this divorce is the mother.
I am long past caring. And see no real point in tying the knot.