Posted in BeingBeautiful, feminism

The Story of He

He tells me how pretty I look tonight,
The short dress,
making my legs look longer.
He knows not of the pain of
Every hair pulled out,
the burn of the hot wax,
The anxiety as the strip is rubbed against my skin.
For him they’re just a pretty pair.

He told me how he wanted to kiss
my luscious lips.
Red lips which were nothing compared to
The redness caused above them,
When the hair was threaded out.
It buried into my skin,
As I press my tongue against it.
So as to retaliate?

The glint in my big black eyes,
would make him stare into them all day.
Well, not with my dense black brows,
the plucking of which,
made my eyes quiver in pain.

Shaving my hair,
Shaving it off my head.
The latter considered bizarre,
The former, well, surreptitious.

We’re told
Pretty hurts.
Handsome never does.
Child birth hurts,
Intercourse on him doesn’t.
Menstruation hurts, Boners don’t.
Then why should I choose pretty,
When I endure pain almost at every turn in life?
Be it a war between my legs or a new life inside me?

So the next time he tells me I’m pretty,
I’ll tell him to wait,
Till my dark black hair
Is back.

Posted in Domestic violence', Mothers

Letter to Ma

There was abnegation for him

The moment his hand was on your delicate, slender neck

His clutch growing tighter

Till he realizes the sanity of it

And lets go

You laying breathless on the floor


He is the beast to your beauty

The prick that puts you to sleep

You don’t need him

But you need him there

For me, and that saddens me


But you’ve had enough

I am here now

To shield you when he takes a step forward

There to shut him out when he does loud

There to make him respect you

As there is no compassion in him no more

But I won’t let you go numb

Screening him away


Making you smile

Laugh. Love. Live.

As you rightfully deserve.


Your Daughter.

Posted in Uncategorized

Back Home

You are back home

When you’re stopped while keeping the keys under the mat

“We keep a pair of keys each with us now”

You can’t find the sugar container

It isn’t kept where it used to be

Your brother’s grown taller

Your mom older

They set up wi-fi at home

You feel alienated in your own bedroom

No warmth in your sheets

The scribbling on your wall is gone

You smell fresh paint

You don’t remember your favorite TV channel’s number

There are new plates on the dinner table

New books in your library

You are back home

But it was home back then.


Posted in life, Rain

Downpour to the past

Rain fascinates me. It brings to me thoughts that I don’t pay attention to usually. Just feels like yesterday when I was this stupid, immature little girl, a big mouth, sitting with legs wide open and a perpetual extrovert (sex no bar). And then a heavy shower washed her away and refined me. Now i take decisions wisely. There is introspection and retrospection, practicality. I don’t see a person and immediately feel affinity or affection. There’s judging and analyzing the scope of ‘us’. Placing the pros and cons on a weighing machine is the only spontaneous actions I apparently take.

Knowing that my dreams are just dreams and life is harsher. That before covering myself in clothes I need to discuss the dimensions with others. And serving to ‘others’ leads to eventual loss of self. And then I wonder if refinement means complexity and becoming older means coming closer to truth. That knowing nothing is dumb and knowing too much lethal.

The changes in me made me a pre-programmed calculator. And I miss the spontaneity. The life. There is nothing similar I share with that little girl but thank god, rain still fascinates me.

Posted in Uncategorized


The chemical reaction on the board seemed to be worthless, the scribbling of pens over papers, the screeching of chalk over the board and the teacher’s voice, so monotonous ,so repelling I didn’t seem to pay heed. I was feeling imprisoned , being made to do something I did not want to.

With these thoughts I look out the window, a vulture, soaring high, so magnificent; dipping low, so graceful and finally sitting on a branch, what composure.




Oh! What ecstasy the rustling of the leaves would seem, the gushing winds, the warm sun, all of it so stupendous, so free. This magnanimous bird ruling over the sky, an expanse of pure extravagance.And then the bird is shackled, the teacher calls upon me asking me to elaborate the reaction on the board, restraining me to magnify my own thoughts.I didn’t know the answer. I didn’t want to know the answer. I was sent to the field to run five rounds of it as my punishment. Ah! What elation! I reach the field, stunned, gaping at the creature, stupefied. Its freedom, its beauty, its perfunctory flight makes me jealous. As i look back at the ground set to begin my rounds I see a small child, a labourer’s, playing in the stones, bricks and sand brought in for construction..his mother sitting behind him, in dismal of a gloaming future for their child and themselves. And looking at me with eyes that made me realise what I’m losing at. What I have been considering as trammels are longed for, dreamt about by many whose dreams are asphyxiated in the murkiness of giant factories or throttled in the vicious circle where there is no education, no home and no life, only despondency.
I realised my life is mine to be titivated and I need to scrounge for my own definition of freedom. Returning to class I was full of gratitude towards Him, free enough, and privileged to be sitting in a classroom and receiving what will define me forever

That was my moment of “Epiphany”.