Saturday, September 23, 2017

Just Me

I have breasts. I have a vagina. 
That’s how god created me 
I am not special. I am just a woman
I am tender. Like our mothers for years glorified. 
I can wield a knife. Or throw a profanity
I am not special. I am just a woman
I cry when I’m sad. In fury and in joy 
I lose the plot often. Anger’s like my second skin 
I am not special. I am just a woman
Life’s my easel. I paint love and joy
I can hold you when you are down. And hold on to a grudge.
I am not special. I am just a woman
I have tasted disappointments. Spat them like seeds 
But will not abandon my dreams or boast of my wins 
I am not special. I am just a woman
I relish my chastity. And celebrate my orgasms
But a womb is definitely not my definition
I am not special. I am just a woman
I don’t want a pedestal. A trophy. Or a medal 
Neither the taste of blood, insult or hurt
I am not special. I am just a woman
I hate veils. Taboos. And taunts
Make me no bait. Nor a goddess nor saint 
I am not special. I am just a woman
Culture’s not my burden. Religion’s not my shackles 
Family’s not my fence. Fear’s not my noose 
I am not special. I am just a woman
The sky is mine too. The seas and the trees 
Darkness and light. Every street, every nook
I am not special. I am just a woman
I give. I grab. I win. I sacrifice 
Power’s my booze. Booze my right
I am not special. I am just a woman
I am in control. Often lost in mood swings
I can steer the ship. Also ask for help
I am right. I am perfect. I am wrong and guilty
I make mistakes. And correct your flaws
Let me just breathe Take my dues.
And leave my footprints
I am not special. I am just a woman

Thursday, December 1, 2016

A Lover, Misunderstood

He was slowly creeping upon me, his strong hands feeling up my legs, waist, shoulders and neck. His icy chill breath sent a sudden shiver down my spine.
This was our first encounter, and I hated him. Gloomy, sulky, and utterly heartless, he loved to strip me naked, leaving me bare, barren, and ugly. 
But, I had no choice. I gave in. I waited. Patiently. Until he had his share of fun, and left. 
And then she came, warm and soothing, and lovingly whispered in my ears: "He didn't mean to hurt you. He didn't leave you barren. He sowed in you the seeds of life. Look at you! You are glowing now, darling!"
Spreading wide my leafy and flowery arms, I swayed gently, spring's revelation still ringing loud in my ears. Suddenly, I missed him. 
The pain is short lived, I consoled myself. And began my wait, with fond hope, for my next tryst with winter.

Wednesday, November 30, 2016


H: going away...

Me: What!! But how could you?

H: I can't stand this anymore.

Me: You know I need to submit that report to my manager tomorrow, right? The CFO is here, I told you. Gosh. Not today, please!

H: You are fixed to your laptop all day long, all through the week. Reports, research, ppts, meetings, brain storming, edits and reviews and what not.
What about me? I have had it.

Me: Sweetheart, please. Think about it.

H: Nah. This is it.

Me: Yeah? Okay. It's gonna be tough. Sigh! But guess I'll manage.

H: Byee! You can find me among the trees in the new walkers' park down the road. Or the flower patch by the Hanuman Temple. Or in the banana grove behind our apartment... See you soon!

There goes my 'H'eart!

Ruskin Bond. Like the Cozy Bed at Mom's

Don't we all love that cozy, cool bed in our mom's house, one where we will never feel out of place, one where we always love to curl ourselves in to a long nice nap? Well, for me, Ruskin Bond's writing is just like that old, comfortable bed. His books are a beautiful world I need to visit time and again to soothe my soul, just like we need to visit our mom's home to feel like a child again, and feel free and truly happy.

Nothing complicated about the Bond stories. Nothing intriguing or dramatic. But his every word is like a balm on my stressed and often confused and battered mind. Every story makes me long for one more and then one more. All his stories, settings, and characters have that fond familiarity about them, but still they are so fresh and new at the same time. You almost feel like you are listening to your granny or grandpa telling you these stories. So, I can't not liken him to R.K. Narayan, another one of my all-time favourite authors, much for the same reasons.

Apart from the easy familiarity and simplicity of writing, what really captures my interest and admiration is Bond's stories are seeped in a quite environmental crusade. His stories are a testimony to his love for the fast depleting green cover in our country. Almost all his stories are silently draped in 'green' as he manages to evoke nature and the harm we are doing to her these days. But all very subtly.

Of course, authors like Bond, I guess, are not for those who love the sensational, the loud drama and the evil intrigue we find in some of today's best sellers or media in general. It is for those who find joy in drowning deep in everything mundane. Who relish the simple philosophies of life. Who love quietness, who can sit at the window for long hours watching the rain or the birds, for whom the sky paints a thousand stories at night.

It's OK to be wrong, to be bad

The burden of being the good child in the family can be huge. You are constantly appreciated for being obedient, honest, and soft spoken. You are the poster kid for all, the role model for cousins, the favourite grandchild or niece or student, and the apple of your parents' eyes. Day in and day out, you strive to keep up to your reputation, even when temptations linger around you at every corner, luring you and teasing you. Sometimes, you fumble and falter, but luckily no one notices. The silent guilt in your heart is just for you to cherish.

But all hell break loose, when one day, a momentous day, you break down, unable to carry forward the legacy of goodness anymore. You commit one mistake. One mistake that is enough to make the whole world come down upon you. Is it even a mistake, you wonder. You? How could YOU do something like this, they ask pointing their huge accusatory fingers at you. And then you feel like you have failed them all, that you are somehow worthless now.

The journey from then on can be tough. If you are inherently a strong person, you would perhaps brave this torment and move on. Saying aloud, YES, It's me. Am no saint, and I have all the rights to do the wrong thing.

The point therefore is, never bring up a child as an epitome of complete goodness. Let kids commit mistakes, and don't ever label them.

Tuesday, November 29, 2016

My first short story! A New Dawn

Thrilled to take my first baby step towards entering the world of writers. Thanks Fabstori for publishing my work.

Friday, November 25, 2016

Jonathan Livingston Seagull

Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested," said Sir Francis Bacon.

Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach - a book that must be tasted, chewed, swallowed and digested, slowly with devotion. In about 85 pages, the book sums up an inspiring philosophy of life, death, heaven, and passion. I recommend it to all who want to explore the true meaning and purpose of our lives.