March is here again. And very soon, timelines will overflow with flowers, filtered pictures, poetic captions, and loud proclamations about how “special” women are.

But tell me, what is the point of celebrating a woman for a day if you don’t mean it for the rest of the year?

What is the point of observing a day in her name when patriarchy still sits comfortably at your dining tables, in your offices, in your classrooms, and inside your fragile egos?

Why celebrate her as a mother, a sister, a wife, a girlfriend, a daughter, or a woman in any role, yet hesitate to celebrate her as a mind, as a voice, as an independent being whose value does not depend on how much she gives, adjusts, or sacrifices for you?

You do not need one day to count her contributions.

You need every day to question your conduct.

Because women are still not free.

And no, I am not talking about “allowing” them to work or earn or step outside. Stop confusing permission with empowerment. Freedom is not granted by men. Freedom is thought. Freedom is speech. Freedom is choosing your life without being labelled rebellious. Freedom is existing without constantly being told to lower your tone, soften your opinion, smile more, argue less.

Why does it still disturb a man when a woman looks him in the eye and speaks with conviction?

Why does capability in a woman feel like competition?

Why does ambition in her feel like arrogance?

Why is confidence in her called attitude?

Why must superiority be asserted even when it is unnecessary?

Why must the last word always belong to the louder voice, as if silence from a woman is proof of victory?

Celebrate a woman only when you can handle her strength without feeling diminished.

Respect should not be seasonal. It should not trend once a year. It should not depend on hashtags, pink themes, corporate discounts, and scripted panel discussions.

We speak of crimes, of injustice, of safety, and yes, those are grave realities. But even before that, why is basic dignity still negotiable? Why is her anger mocked but your anger justified? Why is her character questioned faster than her capability acknowledged?

Why is household labour still silently assigned? Why are women expected to “manage” everything; emotions, schedules, meals, celebrations, relationships, while men are applauded for merely participating? Why are chores “helped with” instead of owned equally? Why are certain tasks still labelled feminine, as if responsibility itself has a gender?

Why is a working woman asked how she balances it all, but a working man never is?

Why is sacrifice assumed from her and optional for him?

Why is adjustment her duty and compromise his generosity?

And when someone questions this write-up, why is she dramatic? Why is she “too much”? Why is feminism treated like an insult instead of a demand for fairness?

This is not rage born today.

This is accumulation.

Accumulation of interruptions.

Accumulation of dismissals.

Accumulation of being heard but not listened to.

This is not about holding a flag for a day.

This is about holding a mirror every day.

So on the 8th of March, before you upload that story, before you write that long caption about how important the women in your life are, pause.

Ask yourself:

Have I listened without planning my rebuttal?

Have I respected without expecting gratitude?

Have I shared responsibility without wanting applause?

Have I allowed space without feeling threatened?

Have I treated her as an equal even when it bruised my pride

If your conscience is clear, then celebrate loudly.

But if it hesitates, if even one question unsettles you, maybe celebration should begin with change.

Because women do not need symbolic appreciation.

They do not need curated captions.

They do not need one day of validation.

They need everyday equality.

Everyday respect.

Everyday dignity.

Not when it is convenient.

Not when it is trending.

Not when it earns you praise.

Every single day.

And if this makes you uncomfortable, if it makes you defensive, if it makes you ask why there is so much fire in these words, then maybe that discomfort is necessary.

Because sometimes anger is not aggression.

It is accumulated truth that has finally decided to speak.

03.03.2026 

By Sudiksha Ghatak ( Assistant professor of law ) 

Not for men, nor for women, For girls and for boys only.

 In a world where shadows play,  

A girl once wrote, with much to say,  

She exposed the games that some girls play,  

Saying they toy with good boys every day.  

"Attention they crave from those who are kind,  

But to bad boys, their hearts align."  

Hearing this, the good boys thought,  

"Why be good if we're never sought?"  

But the Devil, angered by their plight,  

Wrote, "To lose your goodness is not right.  

A man who turns bad for a girl's embrace,  

Is a slave, lost in a hopeless race."  

In tales of old, it’s always told,  

Boys approach, with hearts so bold.  

Once Shurpanakha dared to defy,  

She approached Sri Ram, caught his eye.  

But her courage led to a price so dear,  

Her nose was cut, and girls learned fear.  

From that day forth, girls stood shy,  

Boys were free to reach the sky.  

Girls were taught to guard their grace,  

To lower their eyes, avoid the chase.  

But times have changed, freedom's here,  

Yet girls still hold that ancient fear.  

Belief has turned this norm so deep,  

That boys must chase, while girls retreat.  

This belief, it shapes the mind,  

Of boys who think girls are hard to find.  

"If we don’t approach, they won’t come near,"  

So they bow their heads and push through fear.  

This mindset turns girls into gods,  

Untouchable, beyond all odds.  

But listen closely, open your eyes,  

They're just like you, beneath the lies.  

She's not a goddess, not divine,  

Just a soul, with fears like mine.  

Her beauty's a veil that blinds your sight,  

But she’s made of earth, just like you, all right.  

So break the chains, free your mind,  

Don't let false gods keep you confined.  

For in the end, we're all the same,  

In this dance of love, in this endless game.

      - (felling is personal but sentence is correct by AI in  rhyming way)