We need to talk

We need to talk- you and I - without anybody to moderate our conversation. We need to talk about this border that separates us. About our history texts tarnished with lies to suit a section of the world. About how our hands were entwined so intricately with each other's that when they tried to pry us apart faster than we expected, we didn't have the time to let go of the other. Now we have a knot shaped tangled mass of fingers lining our border , some fingers scarred, some bleeding. 

I know that you have lost loved ones on the other side of your border. So have I. Maybe that is why as greedy hands of power try to pull us apart, tangling the knots further; even though I have now lost track of which finger is mine and which is yours , I refuse to take an active role in freeing my fingers away from you. How can I? We are family .

They tell me that it is a fight of religion. They tell me that my country hates your country and your country hates mine. Ridiculous. We haven't even met. Aren't we all individual genetic masterpieces? The question of whether we would like each other or not, should honestly be left to us. Generalising a country to be of a certain kind would be a showcase of ignorance. Differences of opinion can occur. That isn't a crime. War, however isn't the solution. We may or may not read the same books on 'religion' , but we recognize this, don't we- the need to keep our family safe, the prayer that they stay healthy and never sleep on an empty stomach, the hope that we get to see our children as they grow older and make their mark in the world, not haunted by the effects of acts of violence from our end.  This too, is a kind of religion, isn't it? 

We were victims of a crude plan of power hungry men willing to risk anything to rule. Even today, this hatred is being fed to us consciously by countries who benefit by this war. You see it too, don't you?

While my country hikes it's defence budget every year to get ready to fight you when the time comes; poverty, illiteracy, unemployment and lack of adequate Health care remain the pressing issues. I am sure that you have your own set of hurdles in your country.  

Here I am; extending a hand of friendship , silencing the voices around me that tell me that it will be chopped off; to instill in me fear that will turn into violence. They feed on our hatred, you see.. 

But I find that my hand is already

in yours, entwined as one at our border. They have buried it under years of bloodshed and hatred; but I can feel my fingers against yours. Can you?  

Life In a Nightmare

The best things about nightmares are that they are just nightmares. You wake up- and everything is fine. Today however , I woke up sans the relief of this being a nightmare after all- it was a condensed version of the life I was living .
My problem was simple- I was being stalked . There was no real evidence that he was bothering me. He was everywhere and he wanted to talk ; sometimes touch. All this while, I was never on the dreaded lonely road. I was always surrounded by people. They would react- oh yes, they would. They would ask me why I wasn't wearing a dupatta over that kurti , or that these things were common these days because 'kids like me' were not like 'them'.
I wanted to file a complaint, but I realised that I ran the risk of the following: an acid attack- because that is usually the next step, my character being put at the stakes- because I stepped out of my house , or even if I was lucky enough to live to see the man go to jail, he would obviously get a bail like everybody else and would want to get back at me for the disgrace I have put him to. Helplessness was quite the hero in my dream  .
I woke up realising how much I had moulded my life so as not to 'encourage' behaviour like this.
I wear clothes that hang loose from my shoulders, I am never out at night, I don't travel alone if I can help it, I don't drink, I don't wear clothes that are revealing. My biggest fear while talking to men- sounding flirtatious . Because being called uptight or reserved is better than being called a flirt. A flirt to them translates to being called a prostitute. Did you know that they think that you do not need consent with a prostitute?
I have been very careful and yet been molested multiple times- I was not asking for it. For instance, when a doctor who happens to be a girl is rushing in the casualty from patient to patient because delay could mean death- she is NOT asking for it. You think that a mob that watched the very doctor who made them feel better being assaulted to bits ,would react when I 'claim' that somebody groped me? Yeah right.
Remember the 'me too' posts that flooded the internet? That took immense courage. Because being molested in India automatically makes you damaged goods. (If a boy is molested, that makes him gay and unmanly) Nobody will ever want to marry or be associated with damaged goods, they say. Although I am yet to meet one person who hasn't made it through life without what they call baggage. Some wierd thought process makes you the cause for disgrace in the family - even if the molester is a family member. After all, we hide the faces of rapists, and talk about the time the victim was out wearing those revealing clothes.
What was I even expecting you ask? My government wants to adorn me with bindis and kumkums which for them is essential (for their pleasure) , while a sanitary napkin is a luxury. My teacher taught me that a luxury meant an inessential , desirable item , which is expensive or difficult to obtain . No, using a piece of cloth isn't a good option- it is unhygienic and it doesn't absorb the menstrual blood well enough. We cannot function at our best when we need to go to the rest room every hour. You may not want to understand this , because you- the ones who wanted taxes imposed on them ; are a group of men who might have never gone to school. If you have, you are a good example of how education is not equalent to knowledge and compassion .
While you still scream Bharat mata ki jai on the mike sets, or debate about national anthems in movie theaters ; do not open your mouth and ever call me India's daughter. You do not know the meaning of the word- you are not a good parent .

A READER'S DELIGHT

Every reader is a Superman living in the mask of a Clark Kent. Their super power- a secret love affair since the day they opened a book. It went on from meeting up with a loyal friend , to having heart to heart conversations with a lover willing to take you on a date when you feel like it.

It makes you steal moments from your busy day at work and tiring human interactions to listen to this lover passionately talk about war, revolution, strikes, jealousy , love.. Only to come back energized, ready to take on the world.
Oh! The blush on my cheeks? One of the characters just said something very nice.

You yearn to go back home to shed the cloak of extroversion you have donned- for that is what it takes to make your self heard.
You wish the world goodnight and settle with that book in bed, like cuddling with a forbidden lover who whispers into your ear everything about what happens next. He waits while you gasp, chuckle, shed a few tears ;together , both of you paint a world so intimate - for only the union of that author and you could have brought that masterpiece to life.
When you read an author, you read the language of his soul (even after his death)- you get a peek into its depth, for words so powerful cannot be written half heartedly . Something probably only a few got to see during his time. This beautiful saga continues till your eyes feel heavy with the weight of slumber, until sleep takes you away as one of its own.
On your visit to the library or the bookstore, the author's wink and wave from their books on the stands. You approach them as you would an old friend , run your fingers slowly along its spine and whisper a gentle 'hey there..'
For an introvert like me, books are a safe haven. They don't expect me to open my soul ,while they peel theirs down layer by layer . They don't mind my awkwardness when I meet them the first time or the long, long time I take to break the ice.
So when my friends go on dates and fall in love with colleagues at work, I have breakfast with Scott Fitzgerald, lunch with Han Kang and I dine with Khaled Hosseini.
You call this an awkward introvert's sad life, I call it my secret love affair. 

I Stutter

Those words that you casually throw to the winds,
Words pronounced with the fluidity of a flying bird at ease;
Those words - oh those words- to me , are like diamonds;
They need to be polished, worked on, practiced, repeated-
Untill they tumble out of my mouth with seemingly effortless ease-
To bring my racing thoughts to an understandable pace,
To slow down, to bring my point across.
My sentences don't end with an elegant parameter,
They have no rhyme nor order much like this poem;
Because I stutter.

 I get stuck on words;
Syllables get repeated at an alarming rate,
Bespectacled and stuttering- they made me the symbol of a prototype nerd,
My "supposed embarrassment" on display to the world.
Yes. I stutter.

I jump hurdles over difficult words,
I navigate my way through potential blocks,
I switch languages, I shuffle words;
My brain constantly plays juggle with a million synonyms for words.
Yes, I stutter.

I stutter because I dare to speak.
I stutter because I have a voice of my own.
Yes, I stutter
and this is what my voice sounds like.

The Armour

The battle shield, the thick shell, the brick walls- we've heard it all; 
The armour we wear to glue us tight when into pieces we might just fall. 
You've seen that face when you steal a glance at your closest friend,

When a random man carelessly tugs at a string she is yet to mend. 

You've watched her face calm, her fingers at ease. 

The sight they see, a picture of perfect peace. 

You've watched her draw curtains, the raging storm beneath to hide. 

You've watched her smile , while she pushed what she felt aside. 

You've done that yourself- when you said 'I'm fine' on that day of your tragic loss. 

As if your words were enough to veil that your life had just gone for a mighty toss. 

You shove them aside into that dirty corner yearning for light. 

For completion, you throw over it a thick blanket to cover that hideous sight. 

They do haunt you every night, you become aware then of your own breath, 

Yet you hold on like a flower that never blooms , but carries it's scent hidden, till it's very death. 

When somebody comes along, you wonder in silence, "Is this the one that you seek?"

Will they flinch- will they run- god forbid will they leave if you let them have a peek? 

You wait with bated breath, peel yourself down, layer by layer;

Praying , that inspite of the scars that disgust you, to stay in your life, this time they will dare. 

FIRE

The divine invention of the human mind,
The element purest perceived by mortal kind,
Tamed to man's liking- flickering at the tip of an oiled wick,
to a spot of light reduced- at a smokers finger tip.
Beware- it's blazing rage, it's wrath unseen,
could drown the best of the brave into a haunted sea;
of gruesome deaths, of bodies chipped, of withered lives,
of dreams that awaken slumbers as if stabbed with a thousand knives.
Fire is the first colour beyond the window of a working mind- illuminated; drunk on a thought brand new,
Fire is in the charred manuscript of a forbidden idea in the hands of timid mortals ; perceived way ahead of its time- written by a mighty few.
Fire is also the end of a brave genius at the stakes burnt,
for refusing to apologise for stating the truth through observation that he learnt.
Fire is in the hasty strokes of a poets quill , lest his words travel unheard, perched upon times soaring wing.
Fire is in the mocking slogan etched across the archway of a reigning king.
Fire is in the sacred anthem of a society behind veils, meeting in shadows for what they believe.
Fire is in breaking shackles, tied by tradition, failing to restrain a spirit impossible to cleave.
Fire is in the unshakeable will to try, when the last breath in you has died,
to search within depths of a sunless sea for the hope to go on- for the popular belief you have defied.
Fire is in pursuit, fire is in passion, fire is in quenching relentless curiosity,
In the search for truth , in the belief in proof, in the decision to defy them wrong majority.

The Marriage Market Hypocrisy

Once upon a time, long long ago,a (not very bright) person in our society concluded that a wedding is every girls greatest dream. The society, has ever since taken it upon itself to prepare the girl for her wedding, irrespective of whether she asked for it or not.

First things first, once you get into the so called marriageable age, there is this mould that you need to fit into. Hair a certain length, skin a certain tone or brighter, not too thin, not too fat, voice a particular pitch, clothes a certain kind and yes, although not very openly spoken about; breasts a certain size. Here is the catch. What this mould is, is decided upon by the parents. Never the prospective bride or groom. Life is afterall all about adjustments..

So by the time you reach this dreaded age, the you who has won debates against beauty pageants arguing that beauty is skin deep, who passionately wrote essays against the dowry system, stood shoulder to shoulder with the boys in your class without realising it and most importantly, the you who deeply respect your parents and teachers for inculcating in you a sense of equality with men- the independent , free-thinking you , will have to ask your brain to please go on a holiday for a while- for this is the year when the hypocrisy of the marriage market will wave hello.

Numero uno-  the colour- nobody in India is ever fair enough. Time to attend your roll call at the beauty parlour, where you are obviously the ugliest female the beautician has set her eyes on. Enter facials and de tan treatments.

Once you are done dealing with this self induced abuse, next comes your weight. Too thin, too fat, never enough. Your options- hog on food till you burst or starve till you die; because no boy will want to marry a girl like you.

A haircut? Dont cut your hair too short. Please get a nice haircut atleast - you look like a villager.

While on one end everybody will be bent up on crushing your self esteem under their feet, your parents will frantically go to the all knowing astrologer with horoscopes to find a match.
Thanks to a twist of fate, they will at last find one match. "Bechara" (poor) guy - your friends will call him. Ofcouse he is a poor guy- this mould they put you into is strangulating you and he has no idea.
Their family comes to see you next. You have been adviced on how to behave. Don't talk too much. Don't smile too much. Don't ask too many questions. Don't be you. Please, don't be you.
After awkward questions from both sides comes the bonus- talk to him on the phone and get to know each other.
A catch awaits.. your parents casually talk about the amount of gold they can afford to deck you up in. They wonder if it will be enough..
Your brain that has come back from its holiday , much to everybody's distaste pops the big question- "Are they selling you for a price or buying him ?"  You dare to voice this question  and you get flooded by emotional speeches on how it is their prestige at stake here. That you should be lucky you even have a guy who is ready to marry you. You were never the right colour, size or type anyways .

Curtains raise.. Marriage day..
Wake up at 2 am.. make up till 7 am.. breakfast if you can find the time.. everything is in the hands of the one doing your make-up.. one wrong dab and everything could be destroyed.

Enter elders...
Checking the weight of your ornaments - not a cause for scorn
Counting the number of necklaces and bangles- not a cause for scorn .
Time to step on the stage..
Examining every inch of the couple on stage- not a cause for scorn .
Deciding on who among the couple is 'lucky' because they managed to bag a good looking spouse- not a cause for scorn.
The bride and groom chat on stage with the whole world watching- Congratulations. You have just managed to put both the families to shame. What were you even thinking!?

Finally, as the day ends, an exhausted, perfect bride, struggling in too tight a cast of a 'fair, thin , homely girl' sets out on a new journey with no visible shackles holding her down .
When her brain finally resurfaces, she finds a bunch of Hypocrates , their eyes brimming with tears of happiness , bidding her goodbye and wishing her the best in life. Their daughter grew up so fast...