click click clack On a white marble floor If you're a woman, you already have one foot out the door of a room filled with all the conversation and opportunities that a man can afford.
This is a scene we've all seen before. Paid way less when you're told that you worked way more. I'm sure a client will adore my face in a meeting, but what do i do with the horror when he hears me speaking?
I'm reeking of the sour aftertaste of everyday misogyny. My worth measured by the distance between my skirt and the floor. And when I protest, politely, of course Being told that I can do better, I can be more than a bore.
My skin revolts From the last time a colleague brushed his hand accidentally against my everything. My strength and independence rot in catacombs made from begrudging wombs, waiting for their lives to begin before building a tomb for another.
My ears hear no corporate conflict. My eyes read no unjust verdict. My knees wobble of no panic. My voice even now is not frantic. I try to use my woman card as a shield, But they already know I'll yield Because sadly Feminism, safety, and my daily routine don't get along very well with each other.
If I could stretch myself to my full capacity; Correction. If you'd let me stretch myself to full capacity, I'd be taller than these nine yards, Stronger than this silken thread , Darker than this black, Louder than this naked mic.
My worth is equal to the number of folds in this sari. Uncertain. Defined. Redefined. Ever changing. As I shift move walk stumble run shuffle sprint Dive Into the storm.
Riot chhod, I'm a civil war of colour. Black sari Black eyes Black bindi Golden jhumkas Red lips Multicoloured sword at my hip Swinging at the shackles they placed on me.
Din ke dus dangey lad jaati hu mai, Saal ki solah siyaahein bharke ruk jaati hu main, Kabhi kahin khade rehne ki jagah mil jaye, Toh iss duniya ki acchhaai se thak jaati hu main.
As performed at OSS E#15 That's why it reads weird, prolly.