The breath of my city

The breath of my city is paired with noise. When you have stepped down the train, you meet poor kids and diseased men, pregnant women and disabled old men, kids wrapped in gauze and soiled cotton. The city is so full and rackety that these beggars have to shout and sing and hit the highest notes they can to pull your attention. Hearing them is like hearing nothing at all.

Sadly there is little compassion left if you see the same faces begging every day in the same conditions. They don’t even change roles. The kids keep crying, men and women keep singing and begging for the same reasons day on day, week on week.
The noise doesn’t seem to settle, makes no such promise. There are kiwi and grape sellers, fruit cake sellers, shoe and shirt sellers, mosquito-repellent sellers, auto-rickshaws for hire, all screaming at you, as if they know you are craving and they have it for you.


Women and women who drink

The other day I was sitting in my office, listening to a girl reviewing for her friends, who were both male and female, food and drinks of a restaurant she went to. She uttered something good about the ambience but complained about the lack of options in non-alcoholic beverages, emphasizing loudly that she was a teetotaller. ‘I don’t drink,’ the words echoed once more. 

‘You don’t have to say that…’ I whispered to myself.

Time and fate had us interact more and I came to know of her love for cocktails later. But she kept stating that she didn’t drink. I couldn’t  sympathize towards her fears of being judged by a complex patriarchal society we live in. I felt rage, rage against an independent woman who had all the rights to be what she was and yet she refused to. And somehow, by refusing to exercise this right, she denied it to all women who might look at her for inspiration and motivation. 

At least I have not seen a man hiding about his drinking habits. So why do I see some women being so shy of it? Why are women afraid of freedom. Women who think disclosing such a detail might incur judgement of character or might get them into trouble are only fooling themselves. All it takes is courage to stand and tell the world who you are when you’re asked to.

It’s difficult to categorize it as a personal matter. If it’s personal, lets not speak about it. Why proclaim what is untrue? 

There are many such women who don’t have the courage of being to the world what they are. And by doing so they somehow paralyse their gender. 

I find a particular statement paradoxical in the way it is exercised. And that is: Women are talkative. In the 21st century that we live in, I have known young women who misunderstand modernism, and while they happily believe that they are driving their world, they are not. It’s their fear that’s driving them into the cage that the society has already unlocked. 

We can’t blame society for everything because we are society. There is, however, something that bothers me. Deep down inside I feel pity for women who lie in the name of reputation and grace and the fear of being judged. They are judging themselves. I am surprised by how much they speak and yet so stingily. The way they measure their words when they talk about themselves. I pity them because I see that either they are not proud of themselves or they are intimidated by the definition of a graceful woman they find hard to alter.

Women’s day just went by and I kept wondering why that was celebrated for in the first place. I did find myself googling it and the result was this: 

International Women’s Day is annually held on March 8 to celebrate women’s achievements throughout history and across nations. It is also known as the United Nations (UN) Day for Women’s Rights and International Peace.

Although I’m not sure how one can honour and celebrate women’s achievements in a day, I am confident that roses,  chocolates, freebies and discounts are absurdities that are not only trivial but absolutely unnecessary. There must be thousands but I know one way to celebrate it daily and that is by braving to speak the truth. Women who don’t stand for themselves by speaking the truth embarrass those women who have spoken truth for all of us to one day stand and look the world in the eyes and say nothing but truth,  be nothing but what they are and never be ashamed of it.

Being yourself is a hard task. It’s always true, for when you hide a part of yourself, you are being hideous—that’s yourself. To those who are desperate to come out, you will help all women a great deal by just speaking. It’s the revolutionary era we are living in. Have we thought of those countries where women are not allowed schooling ? Where having a dinner with friends is strange, forget about a drink. That is taboo. We are living a life of their dreams. Do not let them down by being ashamed of it. 

Women who proudly look at us with unaltered face and soul inspire the rest. They encourage others to stand for themselves. I am proud of such ladies, and I request all others to stand up and shut the devils who ask us to hide ourselves.

Here’s a powerful quote. 

The Wannabe

The people, people with whom we live think you’re a wannabe. And I find it amusing and soothing because there are layers and layers of innocence in a wannabe like you. You want to learn. You want to see how it works and then work it yourself. You talk to them with faith and enthusiasm, as if you know every spoken word, every gesture, every glimpse will let you in in the place you want to be. You’re a wannabe, the best one can be to ‘be’. Once you become, you’ll need to unbecome several persons you became and you’re not afraid of the mountain-clearing you’ll need to do. But that is after you become. Now you want to. You wish to, yearn to, are all wide-eyed and chin up, shoulders alert. Where beauty is beauty and unpleasant becomes a personal choice for others, you’re trying like you know you’ll have it and become what you want to by the sheer determination and madness you, the wannabe, carry.
I’ve seen many walk out the theatre laughing and talking about the clothes, the bling, the cheer, the finesse, the talent, the greatness and the failure of the story. And I’ve seen you taking it all along with you as you walk out and think what might have gone on to make it look the way it does now. What makes such a talent, what creates such a cheer and what takes it to bring your work to such a finesse. You do the same as you watch people around you. You wannabe the good in them and while you’re at it, you don’t see the bad. You accrue no significance to it.
You are not even ashamed of what you lack. You care enough to fill the gaps and that’s the best thing in a wannabe. You’re scared, nervous. You take baby steps. You never want to lose it and almost never forget making sure you don’t. You’ll soon become. And you’ll soon cease to be a wannabe.  Ensure that you remain a wannabe by wanting to be someone better, someone greater. Wannabe, you must remain. There lies your sweetness, your greatness.
Sometimes I wake up to see you clicked about ten pictures of your happy face. We’ve laughed at you. How obsessed you are with your happiness. You also constantly want us to know how happy you’ve been. That reminds us how gloomy you’ve been in the past and never telling us. You wannabe happy. Sometimes I go see your happy faces. It makes me smile to see how innocent are those who want to be. For sheer nonchalance I want to see the good and only the good in you, wannabe. Don’t be daunted by the term.

Saying the unsayable

The unsayable controls the dialogue
It controls the urge to say
And yet it cannot control
It lets the flow continue
It drives one to try
Until it is said what one dies to say
It will never be said completely
And so one tries
To speak
To write and to show
In forms chosen
In forms not chosen
Still, one tries
To say the unsayable
Forgetting it’s unsayable
And that is how art is born
From this quest, undying
The determination to say unsayable
It is no ambition, no aim to prove a point
It is a quest that gives a purpose to life
What one wants is to say
Say the sayable and the unsayable
It is the quest to say it before one dies
And be understood
If not acknowledged


It’s water
The more it tries to reach, the more it loses its path
Its direction is an illusion
It shows up when water has no interest in it
Water sees it when it wants
It’s at its peak, it will see
It will let it not pass, it will let it not go
The more it gushes under the pebbles, the more it wishes to be sturdy
Every time it’s running, it knows it’s not running right
There’s a force beyond its comprehension
It’s water so it knows not
Whether to dissolve not when walking over dust
When surveying the dry land
When rolling over a desperate tongue
When it moves away
It goes deep down
It thinks it will find a way
And keep running
But it is gone
Absorbed, then returns
It’s water
Its destiny is too an illusion

My ‘self-love’

That’s one task that I would like to do: make myself better.  I can be my own subject of study, my focus, my obsession. My obsession with myself will lead me to what I want to become of myself. Great idea of turning self love into the path of self discovery and self improvement. That self I must work on. That’s one path I should have thought about long long ago. I must hate myself, trigger myself with this hatred and disgust, must inspire, must bring about the change, must shoot myself and must find a better picture of self idealisation. Nobody else must inspire me but my own flaws. And nobody else must cease to inspire me but my own flaws. For flaws is all I can see on a normal day. On other days, luckily, I see an idiot aiming too high, as high as the perfect that she does not know can hardly be achieved.