I was 7 when Ma said I could no more go to granny's house. Her picture hung around the stairway with rose flowers she loved. I'd sit in the backyard trying hard enough to sing Krishna's song as she did. I would mumble as many words as I can and sat beside her rose plants as she would.
I was 13 when appa said I can no more play with boys down the alley. When I screamed of losing the only friends I had, he mightily asked to make books my friend. I'd sit at the window watching sunsets and see them play.
At 17 I lost the child in me. I grew up to someone I wished I never knew. Music, flowers and people didn't make me happy instead reading words carved of melancholy and happiness at times did. The darkness that once scared me has started to build a home within.
I never listened to my last story from Grandma, I never learned all the Krishna songs she wished I knew.
The people I called my second half never knew why I left. They still smile at me, they do. Yet I can't wave them a hello without a shrug and guilt down my throat.
The child in me had all right to know why I left her hanging in the middle. I see her sometimes in Ma's eyes when she talks about me. I wish I could hold her in my arms and tell her it'll be okay.
Goodbyes are hard but even harder when left unsaid.
I'm overwhelmed by your suggestions and feedback in response to my last post. And I realize that all of us are looking for practical help in making our writings sharper and impactful.
There is an ocean of data available over the internet for each of our doubts. I absolutely love the idea of consolidating and baking this raw data into warm, decadent cookies of techniques that we could bite into. But I'm apprehensive that I would turn it into cardboard like crackers instead, without nurturing it with the time, attention and respect it deserves.
And so, I request you for your patience, while I attempt to wrap my head around this humongous task in my personal catacomb. Perhaps, I could share a few of these golden nuggets of information, that I might unearth from the data mining, over my Instagram stories during my stretching breaks. And you could give me your precious feedback which would act as the miner's lamp to guide me through the dark ignorance.
Meanwhile to keep the accountability going on here, on our home ground, at our drawing board, I intend to come up with a daily post of the tools and quirks that have personally shaped my writing so far.
Pardon me if I do sound ostentatious by now, like I know any better, but do trust me when I say, that I have stayed at the edge of the pool for a long time, crippled with self doubt and chasing the perfect stance, to dive into an opportunity. And somewhere down the line, I realize that I can never learn swimming out of a book. That I would never feel ready. That I must simply plunge and pick up the skills along the way.
And that aligns perfectly with my today's takeaway. "That I must do, before I do my best."
This is based on a personal day to day experience of colourism All the events mentioned above are real and have happened with me. My skin has always been something I have been criticized for. This poem is me, reclaiming my worth, my territory. @anvaya thank you for being there and pushing me to write this poem
Hahaha again a question where I won't answer and again a "you" which refers to me as always XD I seriously don't know how to end a poem because poems don't end and that's the sole reason I love poems. Sorry it's long ik (._.) @galvanizedthoughts ट ( Einstein IQ × 200 if you decipher this, hehe not really) #piyufav
Beauty. It's a word peddled around like some quart of cheap rum on a sailor's street. Always in excess. A fleeting treat often leaving you with a hangover.
The grand magnitude of a scene from the windshield of a car, driving at a slow speed, snaking it's way down the slopes to a city in the mountains, stars above and lights below, could fail to convey a hint of what beauty really means to a person. Beauty is, in my honest opinion, the fruit born from cultivation of all the raw experiences, fed and fanned by a stream of emotions. It grows like a creep, twisting and curling, it emerges like the gush from a hot spring and it leaves with the season's end.
Whenever you peek a look at something or someone and feel like throwing out those words, take care not to hand it over quickly. Call it bright and relaxing, a tempting trick, pretty face, perky tits, tight hips, cute smile, innocent lie, muscled hunk, mindful, magnificent, alluring, dark, blue, simple and peaceful or any set of subtle or overt words. But when it hits you in ways only some fluid from adrenals of a half crazed monkey could, perhaps, call it beautiful.
That's part of the joy of being a submissive. None of the decisions are yours. When you can't refuse anything and can't even move, those voices in your head go silent. All you can do, and all you are permitted to do, is feel. - Cherise Sinclair
*Mature content ahead. Mind your head, please.*
Excerpts included from the poetry, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost.
To think of you at this hour with this drink in my hand is to invite a dire crisis upon myself wherein every thought would lead my feet toward the kitchen stand where the knife rests. Hence begins the urge to slit open a nerve to see if it hurts as much as your silence.
The clock ticking furiously above my bedroom door reads the anxiousness off my face and asks me to wait for a few minutes; For its minute hand to travel past the 10min mark. All in anticipation of this magical 11:11 wishing fest, I apply brakes to my vicious thoughts.
With five mins left for 11:11, I start thinking beforehand of all the things I can cram up in between 11:11:01 and 11:11:59. My mind runs around at every corner in search of the things I'm lacking; Things that I am in dire need of and are nowhere around me.
Finally, 11:11 it screams, And ask away, it says.
I blank out. I trip and fall over my own feet. So do my thoughts. My eyes bounce off the thoughts which are scattered everywhere on the floor. I start gathering them in my arms but they keep slipping off my fingers like the beautiful memories I lost to date.
I reach towards the end of 11:11. Near the last ten seconds, the clock looks at me and starts pacing.
I close my eyes and spell out the first thing that comes to my mind; your face, with a huge smile hanging from your lips.
The words that left my mouth in those last few seconds: "I wish to see your face glow with the light of a thousand smiles, with me or without me by your side."