Saturday, April 11, 2015

Not everyone is allowed.

Those three seconds of your eyes
Looking at me intently,
Had let me in your soul for a while
I tried to read it as soon as possible
But my trials were rendered futile.
You were so beautifully complicated,
That detangling each thread, 
that you had so intricately woven,
felt wrong.
Those two seconds of that human touch
We all crave for,
Made me live an entire lifetime,
But when it was over and the distance grew,
I knew, the death bells of that ephemeral life
had to chime.
The wide grin of yours, which made your eyes small,
And formed creases on your temple,
Gave me the happiness, collected from pots
And boxes of all those last, chest-heaving sighs of children’s laughter
Collected in heaven.
It was so beautiful, yet so simple.
You did not say great things,
Or uttered intelligent words,
In fact some things you said,
Were rather absurd.
But I found them coming from a place
Which I wanted to visit, venture into and find
New things I did not know about.
But soon I found out,
That the people-like feelings
Which governed your place-like soul
Told me, that trespassers are not allowed,
I fought, I said, I am ready to pay the toll.
They fought me back and said,
It is not the toll, it is you,
Not everyone is allowed in such places.

Saturday, April 4, 2015

To do or not to do- Rant of a Chronic Overthinker.

In life, we encounter so many situations where we ask ourselves- Should we?
Then, we go on to assess the pros and cons.
If I do it, what are the odds?
What can happen, what won't happen, what will I stop from happening?

This might be anything.
It might be talking to someone,
or stopping to talk forever.
Or maybe, just going out in the rain for a while.

If it is so, where is the place for randomness in life?
What are the things we do randomly, without thinking?
Do we EVER do something without thinking?
Analyzing? Checking? Re-checking?

Even an impulse, is a thought. A thought which is spontaneous. But is there still space for utter, mad, randomness? Something that did not arise out of any kind of thought?

Yes. Something which arises out of emotion, is what I feel is the most random thing we do. When we feel, and not think.
Feelings and thought process are different, and sometimes the thought process diminishes the power of feeling and we end up doing something we never wanted to, or not do what we desired.

So what should we do? Feel? Or think?

Let me think about it.

Friday, March 27, 2015

Judge me!

I told them not to judge me by my weight
I told them not to judge me by my nerdy glasses
I told them not to judge me by my paunch
I told them not to judge me for the days I used to speak
With a stutter
I told them not to judge me for the way I speak in English
It has that small town tinge; I told them to not judge me for it.
I told them not to judge me by my double chin
I told them not to judge me by my huge shoulders
That’s why I don’t wear sleeveless, I told them not to buy sleeveless
And make me shameful.
I told them I love kaftans
Because that is what will hide my bodily incompleteness
I told them not to judge me for my black upper lip
It is a hormonal problem, do not judge me please.
I told them not to judge me for my way of extraversion
My always initiating the conversation
Don’t judge me for my wild laughter
Small breasts
Small feet
Long hands.
But while I told them all this
While I told them all this, I realised
I had judged myself already.
Sorry, to myself,
I have been your biggest critic.
But they say
Laugh at yourself
Before anyone else does.
But am I my own laughing stock?
Judge me, and tell me please.

Monday, March 16, 2015

Can't Sail On Two Boats.

My friend ( girl), made amazing points
about feminism
She was thorough with her theories
Had such alacrity in her voice
Made such strong remarks

She took the 'normal' compartment
in the metro
shouted at the guy
who was so tired
he had 'not seen'
where he had sat.
He had taken the seat
'reserved for women'
in the normal compartment.

She needed a pad
the same day
she could not say it
to my face
but she messaged
me instead.

She went for a date
and came back
Said that he did
not even pull the
chair for her
and did not
offer to pay.

'Chivalry is dead!'
she shouted.

Next day
she sat for a dharna
for equal pay.

Through this poem, I am showing some exceptional cases of hypocrisy in our country. Let's face it,  chauvinism is bad, and indeed horrendous, but our expectations of chivalry makes our protests null and void.  We need to fight for equality, yes, but let's first change our own opinions about our own sex. Decide what you want, do not take the middle path. This hypocrisy makes our really good arguments weak. Do not be superficial with your beliefs. Do not blame others. You are better than that.

I am not undermining the need of women. I am a feminist myself. But pseudo-feminism needs to go. We have to practice it ourselves. And practising it does not mean protesting, voicing out then and now, writing posts like these. But making little changes in our own lives. Mothers need to stop differentiating between son and daughter, stand against fathers who do so, voice out when they think they are being held in a suboordinate position. Yes, some women do not have the independence to do it, it is not easy. But open-mindedness, wherever possible, can be practised. One should make the other sex realise the female sex's importance. But before making them realise, realise it yourself.

Monday, March 2, 2015

In response to whoever says I am to blame

This, is a satire. The words, have a metaphorical meaning. They have to be understood to get the essence of the poem which might superficially seem too physically outright. The essential meaning I want to propagate is that people say clothes and partially showing 'those body parts you need to hide' leads to rape. and that this idea, is redundant and utterly idiotic. This idea, I counter it with another idea of going entirely naked, and even if that will be a freedom of expression, the society still will ostracize me and throw me away. A woman, does not have a choice. If I wear clothes, I am an aunty, If I don't wear proper clothes, I am a slut, asking for rape. I am asking: What will you call me, if I give up on clothes?

I have a vagina
and I cover it with an underpant
just like you have a dick
and you cover it too
we cover it because aesthetically
it is not pleasing to the eyes
if shown in public.
In addition to my vagina,
I have breasts to cover too.
If I had a choice, I would not wear a bra,
Or cover it,
but because even that is not aesthetically pleasing to the eyes
I cover it.
But that is me,
I cover it, because I want to.
I don't want to show it,
but that does not mean, I cannot.
What if I want to,
I will.
You can go around bare chested
and if I want to,
I will.
Right now I am not,
does not mean, I can't.

So they say if I wear clothes,
which partially show my breasts,
partially shape out my ass,
and that makes men look at me,
and want to grab them,
They make it the sole and the prime reason.

If partially showing arouses you,
I will not cover it fully
rather, I will not keep it partial at all.
I will go naked,
I will go nude on the streets
will that arouse you too?

I bet it won't.
It will scare you
It will instill fear in you
you will call me shameless
you will throw names at me
but inside you will be wondering
how did I do it.

If I am out late at night
and my clothes make you want to rape me
I have found the solution:
I will give up on the clothes.

Because if glimpse leads to rape
A full show will lead to
me being ostracized as a
or as a madwoman.
But at least,
you won't rape me.

Thursday, February 26, 2015

Not what you think

Blog post Number Ek Saw Pachaas. ( 150)

I realised it was my 150th blogpost after I wrote this confusing stuff.  But still, a post is a post. Read on, and join in my celebration alongwith mental confusion.

Faces. Phases. Two words, which make up our lives. We go through phases, and we wear so many masks that amid all the masquerade, we forget our individuals selves. Someone thinks you are happy when you smile, they see one side to you and they always forget, (you always forget too), that we aren't squares, but cubes.

Achievements come and go, but when they come, people see you, or at least, think that you are basking in its glory, loving each and every moment of it. Of course you do. But then, that just remains as one side of the cube. The other side(s), is never/rarely seen. But do you want that to be seen? Do you want, ever, for people to know what really goes in your head? When you get your big break, maybe at the same time, you are going through your biggest heartbreak. But you smile. You smile, you do your best and you show that you are doing very well. Momus, the Greek God of Satire, once mentioned the possibility of windows to our souls. Just imagine, if there was a window to your soul for everyone to peep into.

But, sometimes you really want people, or more than that, some people, to know what is your real condition. That feeling, when you feel like thrusting your real emotions on their faces. Okay, that sounded too graphic, and mean. I meant, sometimes you want some really select people to know what is really going on in your mind. Because these are those people who think everything is perfect with you, but in fact they are the very reasons of the shrouded imperfections.

These imperfections can be indirect, or direct, imposed, or voluntary. Indirect imperfections are voluntary, when the person you want to tell your real condition to, does not even know what kind of thunderstorm they have created in your life, because you voluntarily give them that much importance. You might as well not even fall in their radar, but they become the test of your singular bandwidth.

Direct imperfections are imposed, by life in general. These are those obvious kinds which everyone is exposed too. They cling to you as parasites, but then they don't stop you for growth. Outwardly, you are growing, inwardly, they have eaten you up and rendered you hollow.

Simply put (can't, actually.), perfect was a word coined by an imperfection man's delusion of grandeur, I feel. It is not possible. I am not being pessimistic, and won't throw you into the garb of realistic attitude, but I am just being outright personal about my view. My view which I will not follow myself but will just put out there. Humans, are always striving for perfection. Strife exists, the hard work, the masking exists but the very destination is nonexistent. We are striving for something which is not even there. What will we attain then? What will come out of this masquerade, this projection of a 'nicety-nice' life, this striving hard to making every end meet?

Maybe all our imperfections combined, the very journey of the attainment, the very life we lead through such endeavours, becomes the destination.