Poets were weaving magic with lexicons that were the delirium of the streets; writers rekindling the same. “There is something wrong”, a boy with a baffled expression on his face quipped from the ghetto of lovers of all sorts… The drunkards, the mavericks, the hysterics and the sob story tellers.
He hated how his brothers were being hated for women who were trying to fit into sizes, most of them didn’t ask them to. Crashing on the floor while dieting, they got up just to accuse, “It’s you for whom we do that”.
Men were the crass of cacophony and the buzz of all loathful songs.
And then, narrations were soaked in idealism; to elevate men and, to redeem men. To redeem them from the racist outfits of “the darker sex” which no one ever questioned.
They refurbished facts, smashing details on anyone who tried to default.
“Men are called so only if they have a penis.”
“Correct”, they approved.
“A man feels like a MAN only if the elongated penis makes its way up til the cervix.”
“Foul! Sexism!!!”, they winced.
One among them marked another fury, thereby demanding his rights:
“Alimony looms over me worse than banks seeking mortgage”
Etiquettes in the name of “Ladies first…” drained their time and energy very often, they complained with sore feet (after waiting for long in queues).
Sexual abuse is always horrific. ‘Men empowerment movements’ and pressure groups were lost as were the ‘men’s protection rights’; thereby tying a noose around justice and fair treatment.
And in the end, when they lit cigarettes to protest against being robbed of freedom… They were laughed hysterically upon owing to the ruins (female suppression) by their ancestors.