Balance

Than rules—when no one questioned the rhythm of energy.

Movement belonged to the feminine.

Stillness belonged to the masculine.

It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t taught.

It simply was.

A woman was never expected to be still. She was chanchal—fluid, expressive, shifting like water, like wind, like fire that refuses to stay contained. Her laughter was loud, her emotions visible, her presence alive. She wasn’t told to dim it. She was told to be it.

And a man?

He was shant—grounded, steady, the quiet center that holds the storm without becoming it. Strength wasn’t noise. Power wasn’t aggression. It was control. It was calm. It was knowing when not to react.

That was balance.

Not dominance. Not suppression.

𝘽𝘼𝙇𝘼𝙉𝘾𝙀

Somewhere along the way, that balance was rewritten.

Slowly. Subtly. Almost invisibly.

The chanchal woman was called “too much.”

Too emotional. Too expressive. Too unpredictable.

And the shant man?

He was called “not enough.”

Not dominant enough. Not aggressive enough. Not powerful enough.

So the world did what it always does when it fears what it doesn’t understand—

It reversed it.

Women were taught to quiet down.

To be calm. To be patient. To “handle things gracefully.”

To swallow reactions, to soften opinions, to become acceptable.

And men were taught to rise in the opposite direction.

To be louder. Stronger. More assertive. More aggressive.

To prove their worth through dominance, not depth.

And just like that—

what was once natural became unnatural.

What was once balance became performance.

But truth has a strange way of surviving.

Even when buried.

Even when ignored.

Even when rewritten.

It shows itself—in symbols, in stories, in forms that refuse to be forgotten.

Like Nataraja.

The cosmic dancer.

A man.

Dancing.

Not fighting. Not conquering.

Dancing.

Gracefully. Effortlessly. Powerfully.

That is masculine energy in its purest form.

Not rigid. Not aggressive.

But balanced within itself.

And then there is Kali.

The one they fear.

The one they misunderstand.

The one they try to soften in stories, to make her more “acceptable.”

But Kali was never meant to be softened.

She is not graceful in the way the world defines grace.

She is fierce.

She is raw.

She is unstoppable.

She does not dance to perform.

She dances because she cannot be contained.

Look at the contrast.

A male deity shown as the ultimate dancer—fluid, composed, almost poetic.

A female deity shown as the ultimate warrior—intense, destructive, overwhelming.

Doesn’t it feel… reversed?

Or maybe—

maybe it was never reversed at all.

Maybe it was always this way.

Because real femininity was never weakness.

It was force.

Creation itself is violent in its own way. It breaks, it pushes, it transforms. Nothing about it is passive.

And real masculinity was never aggression.

It was stability.

The ability to hold space. To ground chaos without being consumed by it.

But society blurred those lines.

It took feminine power and labeled it as something to control.

It took masculine calm and labeled it as something to fix.

And now, generations later, people are trying to fit into roles that don’t feel natural anymore.

Women trying to be endlessly patient when something inside them is screaming to react.

Men trying to be constantly dominant when something inside them is asking for stillness.

And both feeling… off.

Disconnected.

Like they’re playing a role instead of living a truth.

This is where confusion begins.

And this is where Shakti begins to awaken again.

Because Shakti does not follow rules.

She remembers.

Every time a woman feels that urge to speak but holds back—

Shakti stirs.

Every time she questions why she has to be “calm” in situations that are clearly unfair—

Shakti stirs.

Every time she feels guilty for being angry, expressive, emotional—

Shakti stirs.

Not to destroy her.

But to remind her—

this is not who you were meant to be.

And every time a man feels tired of performing strength, of always having to prove power through dominance—

something shifts there too.

Because deep down, even he knows—

real strength isn’t loud.

It doesn’t need to be.

The world didn’t just change roles.

It changed definitions.

It made calm look like weakness.

It made expression look like instability.

It made aggression look like power.

But if you look back—truly look—

you’ll see the truth was never lost.

It was just… ignored.

Why is Nataraja dancing instead of fighting?

Because control is power.

Why is Kali feared instead of worshipped for her strength?

Because uncontrolled power cannot be easily managed.

That’s the difference.

Not between men and women.

But between what can be controlled and what cannot.

A calm man can be trusted by society.

A powerful, expressive woman?

She questions too much.

She feels too deeply.

She refuses to stay within lines that were never meant for her.

And that makes her… dangerous.

Not because she destroys.

But because she refuses to be shaped.

This chapter is not about choosing one over the other.

Not about saying women should be one way and men another.

It is about remembering that both energies exist within everyone.

The dance of Nataraja—

and the fire of Kali.

Grace and chaos.

Stillness and movement.

Control and release.

The problem begins when one is suppressed for the sake of comfort.

When expression is silenced.

When calm is forced.

When power is reshaped into something smaller.

Because balance cannot exist in suppression.

Only in acceptance.

So the question is not—

“Should women be calm or powerful?”

“Should men be soft or strong?”

The real question is—

Why were they ever asked to choose?

And maybe that’s where everything begins to shift again.

Not in rebellion.

Not in anger.

But in awareness.

In remembering that before the world told you who to be—

you already were something whole.

Something balanced.

Something… powerful.

Because Shakti is not just in the fire.

And Shiva is not just in the stillness.

They exist together.

Always have.

Always will.

And the moment you stop forcing yourself into roles that don’t fit—

you don’t become someone new.

You simply return…

to what you were before the world tried to redefine you.

-geom

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