Pens and Pages

Most evenings tension lines form on my forehead. Most nights I can’t sleep well. I make sure the door is locked, I make sure the windows are closed, the curtains are drawn, and one or two lights remain turned on. I don’t know if growing up means living in fear because you know too many truths about how the world works. I am not sure if I can call myself very practical or a little paranoid. They say a child knows no fear and they only acquire it as they grow up through various environments. It would be fair to blame it all on my environment- toxic, untrustworthy, full of criminals. But I seldom find any solace in being blame-free. I would blame my own fearfulness as much as I would blame the environment. It was easier as a child to forgive myself, mostly because I thought when I’d grow up I’d be perfect. That there would be no mis-happenings, if that’s a word. * One really cannot blame a thirteen-year old coming back from school in public transport, wearing a decent uniform, ...

Morbid days and morbid nights, Trees that no longer live, Blood in grandmother's hands, Red fluid that bled thick. The blood now powdered By her hands that crushed The necks of mint leaves. Baby faces on the walls Painted yellow and pink. The same faces haunt at night, Nights that remind them to laugh, Laugh and giggle Over their dead bodies Thrown in the kitchen garden. Trees that no longer live, Plants that died in grief, The tiny yellow leaves Of the stems that grew on the bodies, The roots that captured the hearts. The blood is now powdered, Maybe underneath grandmother's pestle. The mortar smells of rotten flesh, Grandfather's misery and mother's tears. The babies laugh as they protest, They would have bled every month anyway. Ten dead babies and a newly born, Grandmother's love and souls torn. Let the baby live That bleeds only once At the time of its death And not every month...

It’s difficult to cope up with new words being added on to our dictionaries as we grow up – some we use, some we do not, some we understand, some we ignore. It was in 2009, when I started my B.E., that a new word was added to my vocabulary – “Maal”. To reach the bus-stop, that was only around 500m away from the College building, you need to walk past the boys’ hostels lined up on the way adjacent to the building. And if you’re alone (provided, you’re a girl) or with a bunch of other girls, your ears are sure to echo with the chants of the word “maal” coming from those hostels. It was scary on the first few days, so scary that you feel like running to the bus stop as fast as you can. After a few days it became more embarrassing than scary – you feel like you’re being noticed, you feel conscious about yourself, you wonder if your clothes are revealing your contours, you cover yourself well with your dupatta and walk on. Eventually, we started taking a “Tempo” (sort...

I am often surprised, if not dismayed, when I read those angry articles on women, and especially when it’s penned down by a woman. A few days back I read a piece of article written by a renowned author quoting that the modern woman instead of seeking to be a man should regain her femininity. Whenever it’s mentioned what a man or woman “should” do or be like, it disappoints me. Who decides who should behave like whom? Are these the rules written in ancient scriptures, which were written by no one else but men or women like us who happened to belong to a different era? Are these the rules mentioned by kings and queens who no longer reign? Or are these rules conveyed by the Almighty himself/herself whose existence is somehow dubious for some, if not all, of the people? It must be amusing to look at the world through the tinted glasses one wears; and then whenever a color seems too bright or too pale, to quote it as a misfit. Where lays the liberty of just being human? Is i...