Breasts

I stand in front of the mirror, looking at my breasts. Yes. Breasts.

The anatomy of my body whose distinct function is to provide sustenance to the young for a certain period of time. Composed mostly of fatty tissue and lobes. Lobes are used to store milk.

This is its function. Period.

But these two distinct blobs of fat have defined my life. Because they are a source of fascination and pleasure, for men.

Pinching, biting, nipping, sucking, squeezing, groping, and a long list of creative acts are associated with the anatomy in question.

Are they big, small, dark, loose, taut, firm, saggy, erect, and for the love of God what not.

If you, reader, are in possession of them, then you know what I am talking about. How having breasts has defined everything, especially in our South Asian part of the world.

Growing up, I hated them. Hated them like how Satan hates the angels.

From a young age, I could see the eyes of men, venturing toward my chest. Because. Breasts.

I would be urged to wear loose clothes and cover them up with a dupatta or a scarf. Hide them, ensure that no one knows I possess the damn demons.

Walking in crowded places, men would always venture too close, to get a free feel, an accidental brush.

Because, breasts.

Having breasts made my life a nightmare. I would eye my clothes, hoping that no one would “notice” them. Cover them up with dupattas. Wear dark clothes.

But that didn't stop their eyes from dropping down. I could have worn a flat metal armor and they would still look. Because. Breasts.

And now at the ripe age of forty. I am still fighting this battle, and quite frankly, I am exhausted.

I am tired of covering up. I am tired of men’s eyes. I am tired of how this is never going to end. How this part of my anatomy is still an object of leering eyes. How I still assess what I am going to wear and how my fucking breasts would look and if they would be prominent. I am so so tired of living like this.

Of always trying to save myself. Of trying to contort myself so I for once I can feel easy. So for once I can feel normal. But this is normal, they tell me. It's in men’s instincts. It’s evolution.

I should be used to it now.

But I am not. I am not. I loathe being ogled at like a piece of meat. I hate the staring men and their eyes and their thoughts. It upsets me. Like that annoying piece of gum which is stuck at the back of your shoe, their eyes do not leave me.

I hate not being able to walk down the road, without someone visually assaulting me.

It bereaves me. I don't want anything from them. I don't want anything of them.

It is always men, Always the harassers, the aggressors.

They have absolutely no idea how it feels to walk down the street, wary that predators abound, always ready and waiting. When I see little girls happily strutting about their business, happy, cheerful, unaware of the monstrous eyes which are ever ready to feast on their budding anatomy, my heart breaks, and bleeds. All I can do is cast a sincere prayer for them that maybe, maybe they may be spared.

I am so so tired. And deeply despondent. Sometimes I wish I could slice them off and shove them down their fucking throats. Like here. Here you fucking bastard. Eat it. Eat it and just leave me the fuck alone.

Let me live.