She's there at your home. She wakes you up every morning when the alarms in your high-end smartphones cannot. She knows where your car keys disappeared, where your Converse high-tops have vanished to, and where in the world your favourite pair of jeans are. She knows just exactly how much Nutella you need to make your day. She lets you make your mistakes, while doing her best that the tally remains limited to the minimum.
She's there in Maa.
She bugs you when she shouldn't. She bursts into your room as if she belongs there. Sometimes, when you return to your room, and find all that clutter miraculously cleared up, she did it. No matter how old she may get, you'll always look out for her. She'll always be your first guide, because she's seen more life than you have. She makes life worth living.
She's Didi.
She is magnanimously annoying. Like climb-onto-the-nerves-and-itch-bad annoying. She sneaks and peeks and searches and shuffles through your stuff to stumble across your secrets. She doesn't spare even your favourite pair of shoes, because what's yours, is hers (in her dreams). She thinks she'll always get away, because she's the li'l baby compared to you. You can't imagine letting a guy near her, not on your watch. She's your source of all evil, and your own spawn of Satan and the bundle of everything mischievous.
She's your little sister.
She doesn't stop talking, and you'd rather she doesn't. She gets jealous every other second. She loses her temper any time she wants and always expects you to make up for it. Sometimes, she puts on her miniskirt and heels, just because she wants you to love her more. On other days, she'll wear her dad's tshirt and shorts because she knows you'll love her anyways. No one can get through to you when you're mad, but one tiny kiss from her can make your day.
She's that sexy girlfriend of yours.
She keeps that roti warm for you every night you're late. She lays out your clothes every morning before you leave. She melts your credit card with all that shopping, she melts your heart smiling. She's the reason behind your success. She's the CEO at home, and you can't deny it.
She's your lovely wife.
But she's not "yours". She's no one else's. She's her own.
Just because she loves you unconditionally, and forgives you each time, it doesn't make her a 'doormat'. You can't decide when to use her, and when to not. You can't walk all over her just because she doesn't complain. She's not for granted. One day, she'll decide she wants to be happy, and she'll leave. And take my word for it, she ain't gonna return.
She's crazy, she's beautiful, each one in her own way. She's a doctor, she's a teacher, a philosopher and she's tall and short, dark and fair, thin and thick, smart and dumb, everything all at once. And you can't take her place.
She wear shorts because she feels the heat too, not because she wants to be whistled at. "Sorry if I'm rude bhaiya, par salwar-kurta bhi pehen lu naa, toh aap utne hi besharam rahenge." If that incites a person to commit a heinous crime, the fault will always be in the mind of the beholder. It's not her fault, and will never be. She drives alone because she's old enough to. She roams around at night, because she's an Indian, and a free one that too, not because she's volunteering to be raped, assaulted and humiliated. She's not your next victim.
She's pride and humility, power and docility, submission and dignity, self-respect and honour. If she wasn't here, you wouldn't be.
She's the woman we often forget to celebrate.
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