A little dose of something old

The man made his wife a tool. He used her as a weapon against mortality. She was the sole defence he had against oblivion and he was certainly not going to waste time on propriety. There was something hypocritical about his exacting demands on her and it was all socially sanctioned; it was not right to rape a woman but it was not wrong to rape your wife. It was not condoned to be an adulterer yet it was condemned if you were an adulteress .

The line was so blurred and patchy, there were so many means for him to tie her to himself with the obligations of a marriage and yet she had no way to have an opinion of her own. If he sat her down at breakfast and told her that he had a mistress, then it was still her duty to continue at her seat and listen to him remind her that all he asked for was loyalty and a son.

She was a cat without claws, left in a sack that was closing in on her as she swelled up with the hateful rage she rightfully felt. There could have been no way for her to retaliate. All she could do to spite him was love the daughter that he had sired with another woman. All she could do was hope to embarrass him in the company of his peers, though she possessed the knowledge that he really was not concerned.

She would bear his children in silence. She would wordlessly accept her station as his trophy, his possession, his caretaker as time changed her worth. She would be the mistress of his house and yet see the distaste that he evidently held her in.

Maybe she was no saint, herself. She was not. She made her life the best she could in the circumstances that were thrown at her like a dog in the pits, trying to fend off death with all her might, but being reduced to tatters in the fray. Her frills and her stance were all she was worth to him.

Generations suffered on in a silence that kept them bound to the life that they were made to believe was ordained by the Gods themselves. They were reduced to living in keeping with the hypocrisies that were made more and more elaborate to hide a fact that was becoming increasingly vulgar in its familiarity. Protocol made them slaves to tradition and there came a time whence the ruffles attached to living, originally intended to hide the truth even though it was a well known fact, became the signs by which the truth was openly mocked and made a jest of. The farce of secrecy held a woman's dignity at ransom and the slightest slip made her the victim of society's brilliant theatrics.

And now, the times look like they are at the brink of a change. There seems to be a place, now, in history that has been set aside for making amends for the follies of the past. I am not asking for a reversal of any sort. I simply wish to see that, in the name of a fake superiority, this hypocrisy of gender and role becomes less of an issue and Life is allowed to knock on everyone's irrespective of whether you sire the children or bear them.

NOTE> forgive the harsh tone, men, this was inspired by the film The Duchess. You'll know once you watch it.

KarishmaModi

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