Rajkumari: The Woman Who Was Never Just One

For the last one month, I have sat with my womanhood. Not just the word, but its weight. The expectations woven into it. The knots between roles. The apparent and intentional misfortunes that come with it.

I have also sat with the pride. The unspoken, unwritten power that moves through the spaces where women gather. The invisible, yet undeniable current that binds us. The pride of knowing we carry the world in the curve of our backs, in the calloused palms of our mothers, in the resilience of our laughter after long, unrelenting days.

I have sat with duality. A girl never turns into a woman—she grows into one. Her girlhood does not vanish, does not dissolve like sugar in water. It stays, alive and wise, stretching its roots deep into her becoming. Like a banyan tree, her growth is not linear; it is expansive. Its roots tell the story of her transition—not a loss, but a layering.

And yet, the world does not always see these layers.

In a training session, I was nicknamed Rajkumari. Princess. A playful remark, a well-meaning label, given for my mannerisms, my alleged poise, my careful way of existing. It was harmless, surely. But something within me resisted.

Because I am not just that.

Because no woman is ever just that.

We live in a world that reduces us to singularities. We are the princess or the warrior. The nurturer or the rebel. The obedient or the defiant. As though we are not multitudes. As though we do not house both fire and tenderness, rage and surrender, softness and steel.

A student of mine once said:

“When you see people, they seem normal. Everything seems normal—until you get to know them and their battles. That’s when school becomes a battlefield.”

And isn’t that true for all of us? Womanhood has always been a battlefield. Sometimes, it is loud and bruising. Other times, it is quiet and unseen, fought in silence, behind closed doors, in choices made, in words left unspoken.

This mask embodies the duality of womanhood— grace like a princess, resilience like an unyielding spirit. There is not a single creative, artistic bone in my body- so this is just a humble attempt!

When I was asked to make a mask of my nickname, I knew it could not just be a crown. It had to tell a story—not just mine, but every woman’s.

The story of the ones running pillar to post, outside and within. The ones who carry entire worlds in their chests. The ones who are always too much and never enough in the same breath. The ones who are soft, raw, fearless, unseen, weary, whole.

I could have stayed silent. After all, silence is something we learn well. But not this time.

Because while I may choose to stay mum about ninety-nine things, this one thing has found a voice. And it shall never cease to speak.