The Y-chromosome sena

Richana Khumanthem *

Pix: http://www.askabiologist.org.uk/

"Sigh...how unfortunate. How utterly unfortunate. It makes my heart bleed every time I think of it. Why God why?"

You are sitting there wondering. Waiting for the wizened old guest (who is your cousin's father's brother-in-law's aunt or such) to conclude her monolog of heart wrenching grievance so that you can offer her some comfort for her loss, maybe even shed a few tears with her.

Then just when you were warming up to the dear old lady, she starts speaking the language of a Y-Chromosome obsessed sociopath "why not a son! Why god why??" with the passion of someone moaning her cat's death.

I stare at her for a moment and say "I-do-not-understand-what-you-speak", making her feel like the social retard that she is and walk out of the room, head held high.

Earlier, when I was younger and naïve, I used to come up with vengeful retorts like "FINE! I am a girl so what?? Ask your son to meet me after 10 years and we will see who has a better life and career!"

Then I realised such overwhelming come backs are unbecoming, firstly, because the woman in question would any day choose a religiously alcohol induced, drug abusing excuse of a son over a well earning, well educated and smart daughter and secondly because, well, I started wondering what if the son of the mother I have challenged, in fact, does better in life than me!

But jokes apart, I would seriously want someone to translate my article in Manipuri so that next time a Y-chromosome Sena would not so much step a toe out of line.

We are proud daughters of our proud parents. Parents who live in the 21st century, who know the value of a child, not based on chromosomes, but on their talent and capabilities. We have our own things going on, building a future and working towards fulfilling it.

Not that I am saying your deranged self-derogating rattling is doing me or my life any harm, but you are like an annoying insect that keeps persistently lingering and goes bzzzzz...if only I had a 5 feet tall electric fly swapper.

Sigh! The point I am trying to put across, and I believe I speak for all the women who know their own worth, is stay at least a kilometre away from us if you are planning to ask us why God made us girls. That will just be your early ticket to a private question and answer session with the Almighty.

I am not against men. Oh no, not at all. They are lovely beings, straight forward and very forgiving. I have never been at the receiving end of the "Why God Why?" melodrama from them.

Unsurprisingly, it's woman herself who puts her own gender down. Unsurprising, why? Let me elaborate. "Putting down people" is a basic survival technique of the under confident and the low self esteemed. It's human nature. Men, thanks to the praises and hymns sung about them over the ages, has no room whatsoever for insecurity and self doubt.

Women, on the other hand, become weapon of her own destruction. She complains, cribs and cries about her daughter being a daughter, probably because her mother did the same.

Fortunately or unfortunately, in my case, I feel like Queen Elizabeth because my mother makes me feel that way and because she was her mother's princess. But all said and done, the decisions we take are not by default. We all have an understanding of rights and wrongs. We have to stop murdering our own identity.

Both genders have their pros and cons. Agreed that you cannot ask your daughter to beat up a bunch of roadside goons. But just try asking your son to give birth to your grandson, on his own. He will take leave of your creepy presence sooner than you can say "ebungo" or enroll you in a mental hospital. And just as well.

And for the umpteenth time, feeding a pregnant woman bananas offered to so and so God DOES NOT insure her a male child. If that's the case, your mother would have turned you into a guy long before you were born and we would not have been inflicted by your annoying nonsense nor would I have felt the need to take out precious minutes of my life and write this article. Period.