“How about revealing all the secrets I have been hiding so far?” One day, I asked myself. “How about telling the world what I have been hiding since I came to know that I am a woman?”

A woman, I laughed. It sounded like a not-so-wise woman seeking answers for the truth that she lives every day, every moment. The most beautiful truth that she adores to the core of her heart and brings to blossom the petals of her soul.

What does it essentially mean to be a woman? Is it all about bearing this body with carvings, breasts, soft, glowing skin, a round face, and a delicate circle called the naval, that prove my womanhood to this world?

Or, is it my power to give birth to another life and embracing motherhood, that proves the world the extreme level of womanhood?

Since I learned I am a woman, I kept asking my mother what it means to be a woman. What makes me different from my male friends? What must I do to be an ideal woman whom everyone admires?

Or, does everyone dream of having her as their love of life? Or, does everyone desire to have her as an ideal wife?

Sometimes I ask myself, is there any other wonder that drags me more than my womanhood? Is there any wonder that leaves me in awe more than exploring the forgotten alleys of my womanhood? Is there any wonder that unravels its secrets to me more than the women residing in me?

When I first listened to the song Tomar Ghore Bosot Kore Kon Jona, I realized this song is an ode to my womanhood. The more I ask the woman in me to tell me a story, the more she brings me the stories of women whom I have known for years.

It seems like I have lived them once. I have lived in their bodies, and their stories make my life a story of a thousand women. As if I am not a single woman but a lost lane of time where these women have been living for many, many years.

This realization leaves me sleepless at night. And then, one day, I realized a woman is always a woman.

A woman who lived a thousand years ago.

A woman who lives now.

A woman who will live in the future.

Here.

All of them belong to their very own clan of womanhood. They all have their own shares of grief, loss, love, heartbreaks, deceits, betrayals, failures, successes, longing, dreams, and stories.

Whatever efforts they put into telling their stories to the world, a part of those stories is left untold. And that untold part makes them a secret, hidden, and nurtured with utmost care and concern from the chaos of the world.

This part belongs to the woman of their very own.

(This post is a part of Blogchatter Half Marathon)