Virginia Wolf in one of her earliest essays of 20th century A Room of One’s Own had pointed that how writing a prose, few paragraphs of fiction or poetry were things of imagination for women who were only to be brought to life in fiction written by men; splendid and sordid: beautiful and hideous; as great as a man, some would say greater. But these were women in fiction. In reality, she was locked up, beaten and flung about the room. She was the property of her husband.
Things might have drastically changed but even today we continue to remain objects of fantasy before one realises that we have feelings and opinions on worldly matters. You might not own us any longer but you don’t look at us as a person without first objectifying us at different levels in your head. If we are able to shake your foundation, we are hardcore feminists, if we speak for ourselves, we are asking for too much, if we stand for the underprivileged or the exploited, we are inviting trouble. If we don’t dress sexy, you won’t pay attention to us. If we don’t talk feminine enough you won’t listen to us.
We are done with your emancipatory expressions attempting to protect us from the oppression that you created to begin with. We are done serving as looking glasses reflecting the figure of a man at twice its natural size.
We now have money and a room of our own. We will write our own stories and rewrite popular notions according to our rules.