You! yes you The black among the whites The lone star of dark nights, The tortoise in rabbits’ race Nah! Not the winner That’s not always the case.
You, who were too big to fit in the box So they chopped your ‘useless’ wings off, Now you look more like the other products To serve uniformity All of us have sacrificed a little bit of us.
For individuality stokes fear You did whatever kept you near, The flock of one’s who look like you But differences became stark The closer you drew.
Catching up, keeping up, living up to them Drained of all glitter, was once a shining gem. It’s an endless chase with no finish line It ends with you Either you decline or you resign.
No matter how much you try to fit in You have already committed the sin Of thinking apart, of having doubts. The road ahead is deserted yet, Regards, the odd one out.
When you filled the first of our days with your ambitions, I believed it’s going to be a fun trip. That we will be together for a long time, With our bond strengthened at every stroke of your pen’s tip.
At times I was scared of how much I know of you; The crushes you had, the people you loathed the circumstances you feared. I felt special that only I knew what made you cry, Before the words were boldened and then smudged by your tears.
It was painful when you tore pieces off me, Scribbling the most beautiful anger art. The “dictators of your life” could never find the rebel’s hideout, I made sure to absorb all the pain in your heart.
It was decided the moment you entrusted me with your beloved’s flower, That if the world ever puts you on trial I will defend and be your attorney. I swear I called your name when the “little one” invaded our privacy, As I meant it when I declared myself a confidant in this journey.
I felt the burden of your heavy heart when you started filling me with your emptiness, I still carry the guilt of knowing the exact moment you gave up on life and liveliness.
The flower has changed its colour I won’t embrace you with rented fragrance like before, The pen is as lonely as me in the company of my pages My dear why don’t you pick us up why don’t you write anymore?
His love was like a treat Had me begging for more at each step, I thought I was climbing up a ladder It was a clifftop of unfathomable depth.
Do not leave me here in this maze For I am unaware of these ways.
Yes, I committed the sin of opening up, But my alibi is your assurance and my trust.
You took me up and up till the ground disappeared into clouds, Wandering in the sky I felt like a kite. Between a bird and a kite one is dependent on thread, And oh dear how did you forget that I am afraid of heights?
My head hangs low admitting it’s a point of no return for me, We either move together or, if you set me free, You might not have any regret, not even it’s whiff, But I will have no other choice but to jump off the cliff.
“A mother, a daughter, a sister” Today a copy paste for all your tweets. What about the one born on streets? With fragile relations and nothing to eat.
The pilot the doctor the sweeper the engineer, The ‘undignified’ prostitute and the unpaid housewife. The model on the ramp is as much a women As the uniform bearer who prefers nation over life.
A pair of breasts, a uterus, a vagina Now..before you say haww and bow down your heads, Let me also talk about period blood Because I know, no will care after Women’s Day ends.
Black, white and all the shades of brown, The one who was humiliated for her weight. Reminded of being a “woman” since birth As if it is a thing to forget.
The beautiful, caring and loving one A “sacrificial goat”, that toes your line. Yes we are affectionate by nature, but who is an ideal woman? The crowd doesn’t decide, the crowd doesn’t define.
The one who bears a child, the one who cannot, The one who was born a woman the one who feels like a woman, The lesbian the straight the bisexual the queer We don’t settle for the moon, we chase the boundless sky my dear. And as vast as the sky, that, is womanhood my dear. That, is womanhood my dear.
They were walking side by side, followed by a cold breeze. The streets were almost empty but they didn’t realise it as, at this moment, they were feeling each other’s company more than ever. Both of them knew that this was the time, it had to be said now. But who will go first?
“I… wanted to say something, actually wanted to ask something” said the girl.
“Yeah…sure, what is it?” Asked he, albeit surprised, as he was pretty much confident that he would be the one to ask her, for, among them he was definitely the talkative one.
She stopped walking and turned towards him. Now they were face to face. Nervously, looking down, as if reading something from her shoes, she started saying, “Have you seen those instagram posts, very bland, nothing distinct about them or we can call them not so aesthetic… But sometimes they have these long ass captions, which are actually very thoughtful, very deep. People scroll past them.” She finally looked him into the eyes, and asked “I’m kinda like those long captions. Would you like to read me more?”
It took a moment for the proposal to strike him. But as soon as it did, he smiled, as if shying away for falling in love once again with the same person. With great conviction in his eyes, and as much love as possible, he held her hand and said, “Of course, I am an avid reader.”
It’s her third letter in a week The cries are getting louder, I’m scared to have a peek. I can see the letters bold behind drops of tears, They are mine they are hers, they stink of fear. Every now and then she reaches out her hand, Wanting to be pulled out before meeting the dead-end. The numbness has started to fill in her body Is it a graveyard? Is she a dead body?
I’m trying to remember when did it started Did I ignored, joked around or sincerely responded? But I’m fine, neither dead nor dying, About to grab her hand only to find a thousand chains tying. How do I break it how does it shatter Who is dragging me down, is it me, is it her? I realised, even her stillness is better than my vehemence Breathes make you drown, corpses just float seamless.
But it’s not the final call yet I am here till the sun sets. Whatever it takes to break the chains, My fatigue should not put her efforts in vain. Till the letters stop bringing in cries I’m using my breath to keep her alive.
When I was in twelfth standard, we were taught a poem at school, ‘My mother at sixty six’, by Kamala Das. The poem is about the fears of the poet, which she felt looking at her mother’s dull and pale face. The sudden realisation that her mother has grown old, and will not be with her forever, makes the poet a bit uncomfortable.
When I first read the poem, it was just another chapter of the syllabus which I had to study to score good marks in the exams. But, today, something happened that made me realise a lot of things. I saw my father holding a glass of water. His hands were trembling. And all of a sudden I could picturize not just the set up in which My mother at sixty six was written, but also the pain the poet must have felt while writing it.
Do you know what causes shaky hands, especially at an older age? I, unfortunately know. Sometimes, it’s easier to move on if you don’t know certain things, and I wish I didn’t knew. That strange feeling when you start hesitating to call your dad to pick you up, because you know it might not be good for their health. When you know, your mom isn’t making you do certain things because she wants to teach you, but simply because she just cannot do it on her own. When your parents falling sick is not just a random excuse to take leave from college or work, but actually makes you feel scared. It’s sad. It’s annoying. I don’t know any other words to describe this feeling or maybe I just don’t want to use harsher or more realistic terms.
Sometimes I think I’m feeling this way only because I don’t want to take responsibilities. Maybe I just want it going the same way it was. Living a carefree life, under the shelter of my parents, just how my childhood was. But it’s not totally correct. I am okay being the responsible child but, I still want someone to hold my back. Someone to correct me, to scold me.
What is even weird is that, the only thing that makes you feel a bit relaxed from these feelings is the thought that you too will go through this phase. Just a few more years, and you will be in your parents shoes and your children in yours. This is how it has always been.
Kamala Das in the poem tried to distract herself from these thoughts by looking at young trees. I will try that too. Young trees, young saplings, new buds, new flowers, another dawn , another day.
Random Thoughts 