The Unforgettable Desire

“I do not want to talk to people, even though a samajik keeda inside my system fills me with guilt for my lack of civility. I am drowned by the forced need to message at times, but then, I do not text simply because I feel that the talk will lead to no productivity. It hasn't in all these years.” Image source: Personal chats for public use. One fine night I sent a message to a couple of my friends asking them, “what is it called when you know you have to do certain things and you cannot make time for it because you are doing other things?” They said, “Life” and “Priorities.” Each word made sense to the situation in its own way. My every day life has changed in last nine months (no, not child birth), in a good way irrespective of what people have to say. I fancy describing my current state of being as “twenty three and 'adult'ing” because I felt some time back that twenty three is the age when you begin to feel like an ‘adult’, by my definition ‘responsible’ (Of c...

One day in my M.A. classroom, a professor was teaching Emily Dickinson’s “She Sweeped with Many-Colored Brooms”, and I was scribbling a poem of my own in the last page of my notebook. I stared up, not looking at anything in particular, unaware that my gaze was in direct contact with that of the professor. He asked me, “Do you sweep at home?” “Yes”, I replied. “Girls usually sweep”, was his response. Unable to control the rising adrenaline and noradrenaline within me, I replied without being asked, “I sweep because I live alone, I cannot afford a maid (irrespective of my issues with cheap labour), and I like a clean room. I don’t think it has got anything to do with me being a girl. I am sure, any responsible human would do so.” I do not remember what happened next as my response was ignored. I went back to writing my poem. Do you realise what happened in those few minutes? My developing sense of responsibility was overshadowed by my social sex, my gender, and its role in this societ...

[The following post is a personal and subjective take on the issue. Any offence is deeply regretted, or maybe not. Read it till the end and you might understand why. Forgive me for the irony and paradox used.] We belong to the Indian culture where we respect our elders and love the ones younger than us in our family, by default. I am simply stating a fact, without raising this culture to greatness or demeaning or comparing it to any other culture. If you are born into a conventional (Hindu, as I cannot speak for other religions) Indian family, you know you are supposed to touch the feet of the older members of the (extended) family, join your hands on the road if you meet the neighbouring uncle or aunty, share your personal belongings with your siblings and so on and so forth as gestures of respect and love. If you don’t, then either your parents are blamed for not giving you the correct upbringing or you simply become ‘that’ kid whose lack of such gestures is taken as naughtines...

“I have trust issues.” The moment one utters this statement, people assume that the person has been betrayed, his/her trust has been shattered so much so that they developed issues around it. Probably, but not necessarily. One might even assume that people with trust issues do not want to take risks in their lives or are scared of trying something beyond their comfort zones and worst of all, they are trying to protect themselves. Sit down, give up any thought that you might be having about this blog post, and before you close your eyes, for once, in the blankness of your mind think about a person who has not developed trust in the first place. What did you make out the person to be? Were you baffled by the idea that there might be people who were born with the ability to not develop ‘trust’? Probably, you never even thought about it, because trust and broken trust are what we grow on, learning lessons.

The outline of the distant hill keeps it separated from the dark blue sky. Forgive me for my incompetence with shades of colours. The hill looks darker than the sky, towards a shade of black. The river that buzzes throughout the day with the people from nearby slums bathing and washing clothes is camouflaged in the darkness, so does the narrow sandy road to it. But in complete silence, one can hear the sound of the river flowing. The railway line and the road by its side cannot be seen either. But every now and then, a car or a motorbike passes by. It’s headlights are the only lights. Sometimes the vehicle goes in a jiffy, sometimes it’s slower. But every time it does, my mind goes back to the underrated romance that I love so much. Source: Google Image Search ( :P ) As the night takes over dusk, I look outside my window and tell mom, “this view gives me such a Lootera  feeling.” My mom asks me, “What is a Lootera wali feeling?” I say, “You know, when Ranveer and Sonak...

Big round eyes popping out through a thick pair of glasses, an ear to ear smile, a long pony tail, and chubby cheeks. That was a munchkin of happiness thrown her way. Dragged to a family picnic on a sunny December morning in a tiny city of Maharashtra, Avni spent her time faking smiles and Namaste at women her mother introduced her to. “Could I have had a better time in this alien territory?”, thought Avni. She had spent twenty long years in one place, and didn’t see the fun in shifting to a new place. Oh, wait! It’s an old place, new to her. Duh uh!

It began with a ‘Hi’. No, I think it began with a concern. ‘Whose kid is he, walking on the boundary wall?  How can parents leave kids at that? I hope he doesn’t fall.’ He jumped inside, my heart skipped a beat. I reminded my scared self, kids don’t develop the sense of fear so early. I let a short laughter out loud. I cannot jump from two feet height on to the ground now. In my musing, I forgot that I was still looking in the direction of the kid. He had seen his stalker by then. He waved. I ignored. I went back to chopping vegetables. It was noon already and lunch was yet to be prepared. I looked up through the window, he was right there waving with a big smile. This time, I smiled back. I ran through the kitchen, assembling ingredients and vessels. Then I heard a ‘Hi’. I saw  across the window. I did not reply. I was chopping bitter gourd by then. I stopped and stared; I looked up, smiled, and said ‘Hi’. I saw him jump in glee. He went up the wall, walked, and jumped....

I remember the time, when I got down from the stairs of Nizammudin Railway Station and asked my brother if I look weird. He answered in affirmative and added, who wears make up (Kajal) with Cargo pants. With that remark, I was very pleased with my look. Since then, it has been sort of a quest for me to blend different things together making it unconventional. But more importantly the aim has been to become unpredictable and hence, cannot be contained in a particular category which means that I can follow the mainstream fashion too when I want. On some days, I wear kajal but not lispstick, on other days even if my hair is uncombed; I make sure I put on lipstick. I wear sneakers with my kurti, and flats with a dress. It doesn’t make a difference to me, but it hurts the eyes of the ones who see me, scanning me top to bottom. My purpose is served the moment people are uncomfortable, even if they don’t say it out loud, you can see it on their face. I am not against the ones who follow the...

He: I like Hyderabad more than Kolkata and Bangalore. But then I get bored easily. Me: Okay. He: Sometimes I get bored of being a guy. Me: Try being a duck sometime. He: Being a girl is a better option. Me: You like experimenting with yourself? He: Yes. It’s nice to doll up sometimes, who doesn’t want the extra colour in life? Me: Hahaha, yeah! He: Let me try then. ME: Let me know how it goes. He: Sure, would love to, but only if you keep it a secret. Me: Cool. No moral policing either.

Have you ever talked to people? “Oh, you’re a Potterhead? Isn’t it the best series, like ever!” -           No. “But I thought you are a Harry Potter fan.”             Yes, I love the Harry Potter series dearly.             It gave me my role model before I entered my teens.             Many life lessons within the story divided into seven.             But have you ever looked into the tales that came before?             It came at the right time for the kids of the 90s             But that doesn’t make it the best, when you can’t even define ‘ever’.

“I speak three languages, write in Two, dream in one. Don't write in English, they said, English is Not your mother-tongue. Why not leave Me alone, critics, friends, visiting cousins, Every one of you? Why not let me speak in Any language I like? The language I speak, Becomes mine, its distortions, its queernesses All mine, mine alone.”   -Kamala Das, An Introduction I have been asked, “Odia is dying, isn’t it?” I don’t answer the question. Because, I cannot answer the question.

‘Always.’ It has probably become the new definition of ‘love, no matter what’ and certainly, of the unrequited love. It has been the most romantic word ever since the ‘Prince’s Tale’ was seen in the pensieve. Yes, the story was soul stirring. But she believes that the word has been exploited. Unlike the ones smitten with it, she wonders about the question it answered. How touching can an ‘Always’ be, if there is no one to ask, ‘After all this time?’

Pseudo feminism, and the bastardisation of feminism has bothered me a lot in the recent times. What has bothered me even more is that how it has become the source and product of people’s entertainment. A struggle turning into a laughing stock, pains me. For a long time I thought I could not be a feminist. Why? The reason is as simple as, my father was partial towards me, following the apparent idea of “fathers favour the daughters and mothers, the sons” People have told me it is true whether or not it actually functions that way. The elders in my family till today tell me that I am my Dad’s favourite, and not always in a good way. I should be proud, shouldn’t I? But what have I done to be a favourite, born as a girl? I have always been guilty of the privilege I received at home for being the girl. And that, I thought is the reason why I believed, my brother and I will never get along. I wanted us to be treated ‘equally’. Believe it or not, I did not want to be the privileged o...

(Disclaimer: The incidents, experiences, and what may seem as ‘general understanding’ of the society is purely subjective and is written by keeping in mind the immediate surroundings of the blogger. It can seem as complete crap to some readers, and that is completely fine for their journey of growing up might have been quite different or rather better from that of the blogger. Also, the other dominant gender apart from the feminine one, might feel offended at some places, which is totally fine by the blogger for she isn’t telling their tale, but her own story. Any offence felt by anyone is not the intention of the post. Sorry. But not sorry. The purpose is simply to tell a personal tale. Please leave your comments, if you may.)

SRK movie| "Love You Zindagi"|  Alia Bhatt| Gauri Shinde. Don’t do overacting| Some romanticised concept/ optimistic way of looking at life| Don’t disappoint me after Udta Punjab | Oh, she will make it look so good. That’s how I reacted to the first trailer of Dear Zindagi . I was pretty sure that the story won’t be new. I was surer that Gauri Shinde will not disappoint me. I have watched English Vinglish a number of times. It’s in fact my go-to movie, if one may say so, when I am low. It is a movie, but it also reminds me that my understanding of the politics of a house is a general understanding, only unacknowledged by most. With that in mind, I wanted to watch Dear Zindagi , to have the feel of a Gauri Shinde film; a film which is unconventional at the most conventional points and somehow doesn’t go haywire.

On 16 th morning, I booked my tickets for the First Day First Show of Fantastic Beasts And Where To Find Them at Prasads, Large Screen (IMAX, Hyderabad). And since then I haven’t been calm. No, not even as I am writing this. I was almost sure that my yearslong dream won’t come true as my internal exams were scheduled for 18 th November. But a last minute postponement gave me the idea that, I was so meant to watch the very first show of the movie!

Sundays are supposed to be cheat days, aren’t they? You get to stay in bed as long as you want, eat whatever keeps you alive, have a FRIENDS marathon, check your newsfeeds every now and then, and curse yourself for not doing the piled up work. Such was my last Sunday, that is, 13 November 2016 till I randomly invited a couple of my friends on Facebook for an event of Storytelling Open Mic that I had signed up ‘going’ two weeks ago but was in no mood to attend that day. Being quite sure that no one I know will show up and another event being there in two weeks from now, I was quite comfortably tucked into bed when at four in the evening I got an unexpected call.

There comes a time in one’s life when words no longer help. Words, they had been my thing. Since long. Now they seem not.

Dear Misandrist Have you ever introduced yourself with a name that isn’t yours? Or have you ever felt the need to take up a name because you weren’t aware of the name given to you? Or have you ever felt like belonging to another gender when the world sees you for what your biological sex shows? Or have you ever ate daal chawal but were sure it was biryani in your mouth? Or have you constantly covered your identity with a mask? Of course, the questions are absurd. Of course, I have lost my mind. How can I be sane? ‘Feminism’ has been a terrorizing agent on the social media in the recent times. Feminism has been bastardised. Yet, I find many women introducing themselves as feminists. Just the way you did, when we first met.

O girl, dear girl, What burdens do you bear? O girl, dear girl, What stories don’t you share? O girl, dear girl, Why do you cry in the dead of the night? O girl, dear girl, Why won’t you share your plight?