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A Deep-Dive Into Pseudo-feminism Imagine being discriminated against because of your gender. Most, if not all, women have experienced it at some point. Some rise above it, learning from their experiences and using them to empower not just themselves but others around them. But not everyone handles such situations gracefully, and honestly? That’s okay. People process pain differently.  Sometimes, though, the way they cope turns unhealthy. It becomes toxic. And that’s where the term misandry  sneaks in. “misandry /mɪˈsandri/ noun dislike of, contempt for, or ingrained prejudice against men (i.e. the male sex)" Now before someone decides to call me a “pick-me,” let’s get one thing straight—I am a feminist. Feminism isn’t about putting one gender above another; it’s about leveling the playing field. Equal opportunities, equal respect, equal everything. It’s about merit, not anatomy. Feminism isn’t, and never has been, about hating men. But here’s the thing—human minds are wired to think their way is the only way. Some people, without even realizing it, fall into the trap of practicing pseudo-feminism. And sometimes, that pseudo-feminism takes the form of misandry. Let me make it simpler. Have you ever heard phrases like: “All men are trash.” “Men don’t know what real problems are.” “Why would a man need a safe space?” If you have, then congratulations—you’ve encountered misandry disguised as feminism.               ╞═════𖠁𐂃𖠁═════╡ Everyday Misandry in Action Dismissing Men’s Problems: Depression doesn’t check your chromosomes before settling in. Neither does abuse, nor the relentless societal pressure to “be a man” and “provide.” And yet, men speaking out about these things are often met with disbelief or mockery, as if their pain isn’t valid. But here’s the irony: dismissing their problems only reinforces the same toxic masculinity feminism is trying to dismantle. Objectification Goes Both Ways: Women have dealt with objectification forever, and we’ve fought hard to call it out. But let’s not pretend men don’t experience it too. You’ve seen the memes: “Under six feet? Undateable.” Or the casual jokes about men being “walking wallets” or “human ATMs.” It’s the same poison, just dressed up differently. When we objectify anyone, we strip away their humanity. The sad part? Some people laugh it off, thinking it’s harmless, but what they don’t realize is that it is the very stereotypes we’re all so desperate to break. Mocking Vulnerability: Vulnerability should be celebrated, right? But not if you’re a guy, apparently. A man crying over a heartbreak? “Weak.” He’s hesitant after facing rejection? “Can’t handle it, huh?” Society has drilled into men that showing emotion is a flaw, that being sensitive makes them less “manly.” Here’s where it gets twisted: we tell men to open up, to share their feelings, but the moment they do, they’re ridiculed. It’s hypocrisy at its finest, and it’s damaging to everyone involved. If we keep punishing men for being human, how do we expect them to embrace the very change we’re advocating for? Ignoring Male Victims of Abuse: Abuse is abuse, regardless of gender, but how often do you hear about male victims being taken seriously? Shelters, hotlines, and resources are mainly tailored to women—and that’s necessary, but men deserve support too.  When a man comes forward with a story of abuse, the reaction is often disbelief. “But you’re bigger than her,” or worse, “Why didn’t you fight back?” These responses not only invalidate their experiences but also force them to stay silent. ╞═════𖠁𐂃𖠁═════╡ Feminism Is For Everyone The thing about feminism is that it’s supposed to be inclusive. It’s about breaking down the patriarchy—not flipping it on its head and calling it progress. Patriarchy doesn’t just hurt women; it hurts men too. It forces them into these suffocating, narrow roles they didn’t ask for. And let’s be real, misandry doesn’t challenge that system—it just switches up who gets to suffer. So, what do we do instead? We focus on the real problem: the systems, the stereotypes, and the structures that hurt everyone. It’s not about pointing fingers or playing the blame game; it’s about creating a world that’s fair for all of us. Because that’s what equality is supposed to be, right? Fairness. ╞═════𖠁𐂃𖠁═════╡ Conclusion Feminism doesn’t need misandry to prove a point. It’s already powerful enough when practiced with empathy, fairness, and respect. So next time you’re tempted to repost that “men are trash” meme, maybe pause for a second. Think about what true feminism stands for. Let’s be better, for we can. ╞═════𖠁𐂃𖠁═════╡

To: cosmos@noreligion.com From: thegirlonherphone@earth.in Subject: Just, Because. Dear Cosmos, I am terrified. I really am. And frankly, I don’t know how to deal with this. I don’t know how to fix everything or how to please everyone at the same time. Each time I look at this world, all I see are unhappy people pretending to smile so that their loved ones don’t get saddened. But here’s the thing, cosmos, their loved ones are doing the same thing. And so are their other loved ones. Which makes this all just a chain reaction of people pretending to be happy when in reality none of us is truly happy and it is scary. It is so very scary, Cosmos. Somedays I weep, and some days I relent. And some of these days I wonder. I wonder if this has been continuous in our history since forever. I wonder if our ancestors were happy. And I wonder if our successors will be.  When everyone wishes to be happy, why is it that they try to deprive others of the same happiness? When everyone wishes to be at peace, why is it that they try to go and bring chaos in others’ lives just on the pretext of fun? Why, Cosmos? Why? And why is it that the humans that you created with love and tenderness are now rebelling against each other because they believe you love them more than the others? Is it so hard to just be kind and spread love? Is it really that difficult? To be just kind, loving, and caring? Every breath of air I take in, I feel the smell of someone’s tears in silence. And everytime I come across the wind I feel the hug of the mother who so desperately wished to hug her son goodbye one last time. Everytime the rain pours I can sense the sky cackling with laughter because the sun must’ve made a ‘dad’ joke. Every single time. When nature is made to make us feel loved, then why do we not reciprocate it? You know Cosmos, you’re nothing but a figment of my mind. I made you. For you are the universe, and you are everything that people believe in. But you’re also what I created. When people have so much power within themselves, to explore, to dream, to create– I wonder, my dear Cosmos. I wonder why we really need to hate. When all can be solved and resolved by love and understanding, I wonder where does hate and misunderstanding find their way in. But that’s just life. Isn’t it? Even the moon has two sides, Cosmos. And we? We’re just mere humans. Fate awaits till it flips our laughter. P.S. : I hope you find this somewhere, Cosmos. I really do. And when you do, I’d give stardust and nightblooms just to have your response. With love, Shatakshi donec iterum

I could see love in his eyes. Not the kind of love that speaks in words, but the quiet, unrelenting kind—the kind that’s carved into the creases of his frustrated forehead and the rough edges of his calloused hands. I felt it in the pause of his ragged breaths as he worked over me, shaping me, molding me, sculpting me into something new. And when he stepped back to admire his work, I knew he loved me. Not because I’m beautiful. Not because I’m special. He loved me because I am his. His creation. Clay smudged his crimson apron as he wiped his hands, his black curls damp with sweat, framing eyes that burned with exhaustion. He hadn't slept—he never did. Not when it came to me. Every time he stopped, I thought I might disappear, crumble back into the shapeless void I came from. So I should have been grateful. And I was. Until I wasn’t. Every morning, Alejandro returns to me with fresh clay in hand. It’s a ritual—he adds something new, reshaping me bit by bit. Last week, he sculpted biceps and triceps, running his hands over me like I was flesh. Then cheekbones, sharp enough to cast shadows. Then collarbones, delicate yet defined. His fingers move with a tenderness that borders on reverence. But yesterday, he gave me wings. They’re too big for me, stretching far past what I think I am. Each feather feels like a whisper of something I don’t understand. And as his hands smoothed them into place, I wondered—could I use them? Could I escape him? The thought sat in me, heavy, while he wiped his hands clean. Because if I left, I’d never see him again. But then again, would it matter? If all I’ve ever been is clay beneath his hands, what am I without them? The wings are beautiful, and they terrify me. Maybe that’s why he gave them to me. To make me wonder, to make me doubt. Alejandro doesn’t speak much, but his silence says enough. His eyes catch mine sometimes, and it feels like he knows. Knows I’m questioning him, knows I’m questioning this. Maybe tomorrow, he’ll give me something else—something I didn’t ask for, something I don’t want. Or maybe, tomorrow, I’ll stop being clay. Maybe I’ll move. Maybe I’ll fly. And maybe, for the first time, I’ll find out what it means to exist beyond him. ------------------------------------------- Alejandro’s love isn’t the kind you notice right away. It’s quiet, threading itself into the space between his hands and the clay, slipping into the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not watching. I don’t know when it began. Maybe the day he gave me eyes—those deep brown mirrors that seemed to hold his every unspoken thought. Or maybe it’s always been there, stitched into the way his fingers linger on my edges, reshaping, refining. Loving. He doesn’t sleep anymore. The crimson apron he always wears is stiff with dried clay, the fabric almost indistinguishable from the mess of his studio. His hands shake as they mold and carve, but he doesn’t stop. He never stops. “You’re almost perfect,” he whispers, his voice barely holding together. I want to tell him to stop. That I’m done. That I’m enough. But I can’t. Because I’m not real. And yet, there’s something inside me, something that feels close to real. Close enough to make me wonder. “Do you love me?” he asks one night, his voice quiet, but the question isn’t. I don’t answer. I can’t. He steps closer, his eyes scanning my face for something only he can see. “You don’t have to say it,” he murmurs. “I know you do.” His words settle over me, heavy and unrelenting. This is love to him—the creation of it, the control of it. He loves me because I’m his, because I exist only in the space his hands have carved out for me. But that’s not love. It's an obsession, and it terrifies me. He doesn’t notice the wings twitching on my back. Doesn’t notice the faint tremor in my hands as they begin to move. All he sees is the perfection he’s been chasing, the thing he thinks will finally make him whole. “You’re mine,” he whispers, his voice trembling. “You’ll always be mine.” The words echo in the quiet, and for a moment, I almost believe him. But then I look at my wings—too big, too heavy, too much—and I realize what he’s done. He’s given me a way out. I spread my wings. They’re clumsy, awkward, but they move, and that’s all I need. Alejandro’s eyes widen, his breath catching as he steps back. “You can’t leave,” he says, desperation lacing his voice. “You won’t survive out there. You need me.” But I don’t. The window shatters as I crash through it, the cold night air slicing through me. The wind catches my wings, and for a moment, I think I’m falling. But then I rise. And for the first time, I’m free.

I came into this world screaming. And every day has been nothing but a war ever since. I often feel the blood seeping— From my mother’s hands, Into the soil, on my clothes, and in the meat they ask me to mince. They drop grenades every day, “Smile a little more” is the most common, And I think they like leading my resolve astray, Muffling my mother’s voice As they label my becoming an omen. The fires stretch along the horizon, The smoke fills my lungs. When I hand them the cauldron, My mother’s voice, A bell that rung. Sometimes I trace my calloused hands, As I peek out at the open sky. I think of a possibility— Where I’m in the stands, And I hear my mother when she says, “To try.”

I grab a handful of clay in my hand, and set it on the spinning wheel. I mold it into a lump, smoothing the bumps, and carefully shape a cylindrical vessel. I caress it with delicacy, using all the tools and tassels. Shaping it with my fingers, I smooth over the edges. The temperature is right, the sun is bright— I place the pot in the furnace. Hours pass by. I pull out my masterpiece, and watch it crumble, piece by piece.

Before anyone says ‘I told you so,’ I want to clarify one thing. I did not, in any form, expect this to happen. And how could I? Unlike Janus, I cannot look into the future. Everything I know about are sweet things. Like flowers, ribbons, rainbows, puppies, and… and a lot of things. So I don’t know how to explain to Jupiter that the most amazing, gorgeous, flabbergasting  Goddess of Love might’ve innocently, unknowingly, accidentally , caused another  mortal to die. So much has happened that I don’t know where to start. It’s such a sad tale, a very tragic one, and brutally long. So my dear hopeless lover, go get yourself a nice cup of * ambrosia  or whatever is in the latest trends today, because we’re about to listen to the best story of your little life. If my memory serves me right, it was around six months ago– when I first saw her. She had brown hair and skin that shone golden underneath the Sun. Her brown eyes were one of a kind. I’ve seen and created all kinds of beauty there is to see, yet she still amazed me. Mars was busy that day, and I was really, really bored. So I made the stupidest decision there is— I took a human form and went out venturing in the mortal lands. I’ll not lie to you * liberi, you people have accomplished so much! Creating those little boxes to call each other around the globe? We usually get Arcus to do that, but it’s commendable really. Anyways, what was I saying? Yes, I took my human form. I must have looked decent enough in the blonde hair-blue eyed combo with the pink shrug, top, skirt combo (I saw it in a movie!) because when she saw me– I swear she couldn’t stop looking away. One thing led to another and there I was, sharing a mortal’s bed, again . But it didn’t feel wrong. I didn’t have my normal ‘God-complex’ or whatever they say when I was with her. She said her name was Ryla. And by the stars, if i could chart another constellation just for her, I would’ve. And if I could paint the skies in the colour of her lips and smell and touch, I would’ve. But I couldn’t. Not because I didn’t feel strong enough for her. Not because of the hold she had on me. Not because of the Moon and heaven and the Olympus. But simply because she was a magnificent and radiant being, and I? I was just a mere goddess. I feel so stupid, looking back at all of this. I should’ve noticed the signs. I should’ve noticed when her fingers trembled when it was intertwined with mine. I should’ve noticed the light fading out of the brown forest in her eyes. I should’ve noticed her soul getting weary. I should’ve noticed them all. But I didn’t. How could I, when every moment with her felt like the first bloom of spring? I brushed it off thinking it was a mortal thing— that it too shall pass. And yet, in the quiet hours when she thought I wasn’t watching, I saw her look at me with emotions I wasn’t allowed to feel. Fear… and love. I suppose I shouldn’t have been too surprised when she asked me very mortal  things. Things like, “What would it take, Venus? For me to be yours—completely?,” I laughed, brushing it off as a fleeting thought. “You already are, my love.” But her eyes burned with something darker, something I hadn’t seen before. She wasn’t asking for affection; she was asking for power. A way to stand beside me, not beneath me. I tried to warn her. Oh, gods, I tried. But mortals, you see, have this stubbornness. A fire that burns them alive before they can even feel the heat. And I am a lot of things, but I’ve never been the water to someone thirsty. When it happened, it was like the Earth itself held its breath. I felt it—the rupture in the air, the weight of something ancient and unforgiving pressing down on us. She stood at the center of it all, her arms outstretched, her voice trembling with a prayer she should never have spoken. I called her name, over and over, running toward her, but the light around her grew too bright, too violent, until it swallowed her whole. By the time I reached her, it was over. She lay there, impossibly still, her lips curved in the faintest shadow of my name. I fell to my knees beside her, my hands shaking as I touched her face, her hair—still soft, still hers, even in death. I wanted to scream, to tear apart the heavens for taking her from me. But all I could do was hold her and whisper a thousand apologies into the cold, unyielding silence. My hands, the same ones that wove roses and bound lovers together, were stained with the remnants of her life. And for the first time in millennia, I understood the cruelty of my gift. Love does not heal. Love does not save. Love devours. So here I am, dear hopeless lover, sitting among the stars and cradling the weight of my own foolish heart. I will tell Jupiter. I will stand before the council of gods and confess my crime: that I loved too much, too deeply, too recklessly. And when they punish me—because they will—I will not fight back. But even then, even as I bear their judgment, I will hold this truth close: that I would do it all again, just to feel the light of her eyes one last time.  Little lover, you’re allowed to be mad at me. I promised you that this would be the best story of your life, but it didn’t end in the way you quite hoped. That’s the way of life, my * meraki,  even the gods don’t know how or where our fates will lead us. I hope you’re done with your cup of ambrosia or coffee or whatever, if you’d want, next time I promise to tell you a happier tale. But remember, even I wouldn’t know how the story would end, and I’m a literal goddess.   I adprehendet vos per somnia *ambrosia: or nectar, is supposedly the drink that gods used to intake *liberi: latin word for children *Meraki: greek word for creation * i adprehendet vos per somnia : I will find you in your dreams

To: goddessofcreation@myth.in Cc: cosmos@noreligion.com Subject: Was It Worth This? Dear Thesis, I'm sick of this world. I'm sick of the humans that reside in it. I'm sick of all the negativity in here. But I cannot complain. I'm the one who made them this way. I'm the one who wanted them to be flawed, to be imperfect. Because if they were perfect, would they be human? But then again, I could not create a perfect being even if I wished to. I'm not perfect myself. Then how can I create perfection? I can only strive for it. And I hate it. I hate all the hatred they’ve spread. The discriminations based on the amount of melanin in your skin, the fate that they did not choose, their sins they did not commit but have to salvage for. The burning lines between people and insecure people. The boundary between personal spaces and individuality and creativity and nature and earth and even heaven. Humans have ruined it all. They’ve gone in the complete opposite direction of which they’re supposed to embark. They harass, they kill, they rape their own. They’re more predatory than the predators we created. All of this because they’ve the ability to communicate. The ability to speak to each other. But then again, isn't that with all different creatures we made, Thesis?  We made them. And we cannot stop them. For they’re their own doom, even the fates don’t have enough yarn for this in their room. I’ve always wondered, my sweet meraki, if we were to start another age like this. To end humans and let other species prevail. Those great reptiles that humans call Dinosaurs went through the same cycle. They killed their own, but not on will. They kill to survive. So do all our other creations. Except humans. They kill for entertainment. They kill to assert dominance in domains they shouldn't be in. They speak in situations they shouldn't even be in. They have opinions about bodies that aren’t theirs, land that isn’t theirs. Recently, I learnt that humans are fighting against themselves. They’ve created continents, which are separated by the oceans. They’ve created countries, their own languages, their own cultures. They even have religions to worship different forms of me. It all seems beautiful to hear, doesn’t it? I felt the same when the messenger informed me of all this. But they have so much anger. So much anger about things they don’t even comprehend. They hate each other because of their country? It’s baffling, because out of all their divisions on this planet, this one doesn’t even make sense. Hate due to language? Language is just a medium. The birds we created and the fishes we made— they don’t even have words. Yet they seem to understand each other. And the topic that baffles me the most, religion. They call it faith. Faith in who? In us. In me. They’ve spun different stories about their existence and mine, and the truth is, it’s not wrong. They believe there is a ‘God’ above who will grant all their wishes and punish all the sins. How will they ever know that I am nothing but everything at the same time? I am a fragment of their imaginations. I am them. I am the cosmos. For I created them, and they created me.  So I let it be. All of it. Everyone brings their own doom. We brought ours when we ended the Cretaceous period. If there is one thing that nobody— and absolutely nobody can escape from, its karma. They call me God, but I too am helpless when it comes to karma. My greatest meraki, Thesis, I am so very tired. To be punished and rewarded for things humans do. I just hope, sincerely sincerely hope, that one day, humans, our birds, our fishes, the earth and the sky and the heaven— all of it gets back to the cosmos. For it began there, and will meet its end over there. PS: I hope the Vedas and the Olympians are visiting for Christmas break? I’d love to share all the tales Muhammad told me. Charting sidera in aeternum, Cosmos

It was a red chiffon kurti. A bright red chiffon kurti. A white embroidery bright red chiffon kurti. And it was 2 PM. I was walking through the streets just like any day. I greeted the tea seller and bought a samosa for myself. I was walking through the streets just like any day. The oddity walked towards me, but I didn’t think much of it. Not until he grabbed my wrist, Or snatched my bag. Not until he held my breath with his two hands. It was a red chiffon kurti. A bright red chiffon kurti. A white embroidery bright red chiffon kurti. And it was 2:30 PM. I laid in the soil, And felt my eyes water up. I waited for my soul to return to me, But all I could see, Were the torn up pieces of, My red chiffon kurti.

The first time I held my daughter, I knew we weren’t going to get along. Don’t get me wrong—she’s a very sweet child. She looks adorable, speaks adorably, and is kind to everyone. I don’t know why, but I just can’t seem to bring myself to like her, to care for her, to adore her… to love her. I must be a terrible mother. I’ve never once in my life looked at her with affection. I’ve never wanted to kiss her on her cheeks. I’ve never bothered with her education, either. She’s always been on her own. And honestly, as bad as this may sound, I genuinely don’t care about her. I thought it was normal at first—to be so detached from your kid. I mean, we’re not obliged to like our kids, right? In the animal kingdom, they chew up their young ones when there’s no food. Sometimes I wonder if I’m any different. Sometimes I wish I could chew her up. The sight of her fills me with dread. I never wanted to have her. I wish she was dead. But I can never say this aloud. So here I am, at her graduation. She’s an excellent kid. Straight A’s, great face. She’s the beacon of perfection. Yet I can’t seem to like her. In her speech, she thanked everyone—but me the most. She said I ‘motivated’ her to work this hard. After her speech, she came walking up to me, put her cap on my head, and said, “You don’t have to pretend anymore, Mom.” And then she left. That was the last day I ever saw my rapist’s daughter.

you’d hear my footsteps, beneath the crinkling leaves you’d smell my scent, among the rusty scenes you’d feel me in the woollen mittens against your cold cheeks, and, you’d see me, underneath the golden hour in the mean. seasons come and seasons go, but it is only with me that you don’t feel so low, like a mother’s hum to a wailing child come hither, let me  carry your worries for a while. yet, like the coin of two faces, i cannot stay. but remember me  for i will always be, underneath the golden hour in the in-between.

Knowledge is a privilege. Knowledge is power. Knowledge is revolution. Knowledge is rebellion. Knowledge is carnage. To render anyone powerless, you don't need to cut off their limbs or take their ability to write or torture their intestines out. All you need to do is snatch their source of knowledge. When you take their source of knowledge, they will not have information. They will not be literate. They will not have the ability to think. They will not have the ability to believe. Their ability to be their own person. And once that is gone, what are they left with? Education is a privilege. It builds you into an independent person who knows what's wrong and what's right. It arms you with the tools to navigate the world. To be educated is to be informed. To be educated is to be a better person. To be educated is to know how to choose for the worse and for the better. As Plato once said, “The penalty to declining to rule is to be ruled by someone inferior to yourself,” And how do people know how to rule? They learn. Through education. Knowledge. Because, knowing is everything.  Imagine a young bird. So full of life, and so so full of possibilities. It can soar high in the sky and fly across the plains and the hills and over the lakes and so much more. Now if you keep the flying bird in a cage, you’re taking away its freedom. And the bird knows it because they’ve experienced the highs in the great skies. But what if it had never known that freedom? On the other hand, imagine another young bird. You clipped away its wings from the moment it was born. Will it ever touch the sky? Will it ever know how to fly? Will it ever know what it is to fly? It won't. Similarly, when you’re educated you know your possibilities. You know your limits. You know how high you can soar and how you’re limitless. But when you’re uneducated, you’ve never been shown those skies. When you clip away your wings from the moment you're born, do you even in your slightest believe that you'll experience the world as you should? As it is your right? If you're not educated, will you even know what is a right? We as humans are all born with the same needs and necessities. We all have our aspirations and desires. We all have the innate feeling of being known, and remembered. And no matter how terrible of a person you’re, even once in your life you wish to do something for the benefit of your people. The world is your people. And how do you achieve things normally? By being informed. By knowing. By being educated.But, unfortunately, education today is no longer a right; it's a privilege. The same system our ancestors worked so hard to remove. It is everybody's birthright to have equal opportunities. You can change the world, only if you wish to. Some people don’t want you to know this. There are some people who don't advocate for education. This is why. Because when you know, you know. And when you know, you realize that knowledge is power. And to render anyone powerless, just snatch away their source of knowledge. -shatakshi

you say you’re hard to love, but the breeze kisses you everytime you’re out; you say you’re hard to love, but the wind whispers about you all around; you say you’re hard to love and place your head on my shoulder, with all my strength, i’ll try my best, to break that insecurity boulder; you say you’re hard to love and force a small smile, not the moon, not the stars would ever compare with feelings of you being mine; you say you’re hard to love and don’t deserve it, but darling, how can you not be worthy of the very same thing that kept you breathing? you say you’re hard to love and a million other things, and then watch me tell a million and one times about how easy it is to love you.