Whose Breasts Are These?” A poem by Shradha Ahuja Ramani Did I grow these breasts or did shame plant them when I turned twelve? Were they ever mine, or always his — his gaze, his claim, his joke, his conquest, his need? Why was my first bra pink and padded? Who decided I needed to be shaped — not educated? Why does a boy’s chest mean courage, but a girl’s breasts mean caution? Why was I taught to stand straight but live hunched? Why does my blouse carry your honour, and your lust, and your morality but not my comfort? Why does the strap of my undergarment become a topic of public discussion, but your unchecked eyes are still private? When I crossed my arms in fear, was I covering modesty or hiding rebellion? Why is a breast seen first as sex, then as sin, and last — if at all as sanctuary? Why must I tuck them in, push them down, flatten them with fabric as if they were swelling with disobedience? Have I ever touched them without guilt trailing down my fingertips? When I bled each month, you called it impurity. When I fed a child, you called it motherhood. But when I simply stood, with my breasts unbowed you called it shame. Tell me then Is this skin mine? Or merely a battlefield where his pride and my silence were stitched together? If I bare them in the mirror, and feel nothing but breath no fear, no desire, no judgment does that make me a woman finally free?