The contemporary experience of feminism is increasingly fraught, as our convictions are often externally curated rather than authentically discovered amidst an overwhelming deluge of information and prescribed social norms. We are caught in a cycle where our daily pursuits, political stances, and even our definitions of progress are dictated by echo chambers that nudge us toward "accepted behavior," leaving us to mistake manufactured imperatives for our own genuine desires.

The rigid framework forces us into a performance of pre-packaged ideals—much like answering a standardized test—where we are pressured to conform to specific scripts of thought and action rather than cultivating the intellectual autonomy necessary to define our own values.

Feminism was supposed to unite all women, and even men, against the ideological enemy called ‘your sex defines your position in society’ and ‘being a man gives you the privilege to dominate the world’. But those in favour of this ideology have very subtly and cunningly launched a virus into the world, a virus that has infected people, at least some of them, and created a divide among womankind. Now there are good feminists and bad feminists. These terms carry different meanings for men and women. For women, a good feminist is someone who is opinionated and does not shy away from talking about issues related to women, while a bad feminist is someone who easily gives up. But for misogynistic men, a good feminist is a woman who takes pride in being a housewife, in being submissive, and in obeying. In other words, a good feminist for them is a woman who is not a feminist at all. And a bad feminist is what we would normally refer to as ‘a woman who knows her value’.

Men have dominated history, controlled ideas, and shaped the lives of women, and somehow they managed to infect the only idea that was supposed to unite us. They created these binaries and, with a little fake affection and care, told women that all this was propaganda and that they should carry on being submissive.

Among women too, a rift is growing nowadays. One is expected to be a ‘true feminist’, by which they mean a rigid feminist. Men have been rigid throughout history, and that is what inspired, or rather created, the dire need for four waves of feminism. But if we have been fighting misogyny only to create what I would term as ‘fisogyny’, then the whole point of feminism is shattered at its core. There are no rules to being a feminist. You do not have to hate being a housewife, hate men, or hate babies to be a feminist. As Roxane Gay, in her essay ‘Bad Feminist’, mentions, she loves pink, wants to be taken care of, knows nothing about cars or the language of mechanics, wants babies, and so on, and she constantly worries that she is not living up to certain ideals of feminism. But she ends her beautiful essay by saying, ‘I am, therefore, a bad feminist. I would rather be a bad feminist than no feminist at all.’

After a lot of observation, I came to understand that concern as well. For instance, like Roxane Gay, I always pretended to love black and to be allergic to other colours. I judged women who wore makeup or dressed up cute because I thought that was what feminism demanded. But I was wrong. A lot of this has to do with how we are currently part of fourth-wave feminism, while even the first wave has not reached our villages. If I talk to the elderly women in my village about equality and their rights, they think I am questioning their religion, because they have been made to believe that they are inherently unequal, a lesser species.

Recently, the movie Mrs came out and created a lot of buzz because it showed what an ordinary Indian woman faces daily and how she is treated as a slave by her own husband and in-laws. Sanya Malhotra, the actress playing the wife’s role, realises towards the end that she deserves better and leaves her husband to pursue her dream of becoming a doctor. When elderly village women saw the movie, they were disappointed and said it was a shame to womankind. One daadi even cursed her, saying, ‘She could not even cook for two people. She is a bad woman.’ Now, growing up in such an environment compels one to become a feminist, and by feminist I mean a woman who, even if she cannot do anything about it, can at least feel bad for the suffering of other women.

I think that is where feminism starts for us village girls. We begin by feeling bad for our mothers, then we feel rage towards them for enduring everything silently, and then we go confused when our mothers desperately want us to marry even when we are not ready, forcing us into the same future as theirs. They go to priests and peer babas to help us conceive early, sometimes within two or three months of marriage. When will they learn that women all around the world are fighting this system and this patriarchy, fighting for women of all countries, all castes, all colours? How would they know that we are currently in the fourth wave of feminism, which could soon turn into the fifth?

We live in a digital age, where all we need is a hashtag to cross boundaries and create movements, but for naïve women who have been conditioned into believing that patriarchy is tradition, those hashtags mean nothing. If a boy elopes with a girl, he is just ‘a boy being a boy’. If a girl elopes with a boy, ‘she is a girl gone bad’. To put it in Jessica Valenti’s words, ‘He is a stud and she is a slut.’

I often ask myself what to do with all this information I consume every day. Which side of feminism should I be on? It is exhausting, to be honest. I do not know if I should root for women and hate men, or not root for women and still hate men. What will make me a good feminist? But then I shut my phone and look around. I see women coming into my house in the middle of the night, barefoot, after being tortured by their in-laws, and going back the next morning. I see women jumping off their attics because they cannot handle the abuse anymore, and when they survive, they are beaten by their husbands on the ground for attempting suicide. I see them coming to my house to apply ointment to their wounds. I see women being yelled at in rooms full of guests, treated as if they are merely pets in a corner. I see men laughing at women on podiums because they cannot process a woman standing one step higher. I see female teachers, far more qualified, giving up their jobs because they cannot teach a room full of boys without being harassed, stared at, or mocked.

And then I decide, in my heart, to be a feminist, whatever that word means, whatever weight it carries, whatever men think of me, whatever women think of me. I decide to be a feminist, one who loves good people and hates the bad ones. Gender has little to do with being a feminist, you see. It all comes down to how you treat other people. And how much you respect yourself to expect respect from people. I want to be seen as a person before and a woman afterwards. I don't want to have to choose between my career and marriage, I want to be able to do both just like any other man. As for the village aunties, who don't want to participate in this weird thing called ‘feminism’, I simply want them to be happy for women who have the courage to do what they couldn't.

(The author, a master’s student at the capital’s Jamia Millia Islamia, is a Kashmiri columnist on women and civil society issues.)