//They say a woman looks for a man like his father. And if that is true, my father has proven to me why looking for a man is the last thing I should ever do for myself.//
My father is a great man. A complete human being, If I may say. So maybe, if you are a whole in yourself, you notice the incompletes, the halves and fractions of others, to the highest degree. Much of how I think and why I think what I think has been on the lines of the seeds he has planted in me. He fits like the perfect jigsaw piece in all his relationships. But when you are all the light, you sometimes unconsciously take away others' spark. They say a woman looks for a man like his father. And if that is true, my father has proven to me why looking for a man is the last thing I should ever do for myself or the worst thing I could do to me. Not just because He said that he will choose one for me. But because, if being with a man means being without any voice of my own, I did rather rip my voice box apart myself. I watch her cry. I cry too. But not with her. I don't cry with her, because my knees are too weak to stand for her. I don't cry with her, because I fear giving explanations and justifications for every single time I step out of my house. I don't cry with her, because then our entire house would drown. You see, I am selfish. I don't cry for her. I cry for the future me.
So papa, if you are reading this, please don't confront me. Maybe I will just cry like the last time. Maybe I won't say anything at all. So papa, If you are still reading this, please be with mum how you would want another man to be with me. So papa, know that she has reasons of her own. And the truth you know is what you believe the truth to be. And I believe in the womb which gave birth to me.
With love, The daughter who will always love you but no other man in her life.
//Living in the extremes starts as a mistake, soon to become an irresistible drug.//
It is as if People set fire to their worlds on my body as the battleground ‘A war with a written destiny” This itch and heat on my arms can't just be because of the lack of bath My mother calls it warmth, it eases to look at burnt ashes that way. Each day is the same, pendulling between the extremes And i am what, if not a dumb observer? Thinking i could capture the entire world in my camera Forgetting that cameras break overtime. Thinking i could disguise and define myself in notes and rhythms, But like me, my music is a misfit. For the last two centuries, I haven't seen a morning sun. I haven't felt the what it feels to churn food into a bite, I don't beg anymore. I live with it. My pain. My agony. For many, it is an act of attention. And it may well be, For the date in my grave is of two days from now, But I died two centuries ago. And it wasn't because of Parkinsons or Poverty, It was POWER that played the last supper.
Also, the one on homosexuality, will maybe remain a draft. I read a lot, but combing all into one document or a piece with both sides of the coin seems unimaginable.
STATEMENT: THE CARPET IS RED. Where is the carpet? What makes it red? Why is it red? Why not green, or blue, or black or white? The carpet IS? WAS it always red? WILL it always remain red?
In the series KHOJ, WE ASK QUESTIONS from society, from our understanding of the demographic world we live in, and from ourselves. Some of these questions make sense, many don't. What matters is that we are questioning in the search(KHOJ) of answers or maybe newer better and more complex questions. My effort will be to combine each of the parts of the series with a poetic piece, to add the right amount of poeticness and novelty to our quest.
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The topic that I have chosen for the coming week is HOMOSEXUALITY IN INDIA . Drop your thoughts on the same in the comments. Any suggestions for further topics are more than welcome.