Words

Every week I read many stories on rapes, female infanticide, and domestic violence. We vent out our anger and emotions so heavily that we almost present women as a weaker being. Why don’t we write more about the strength of women and glorify her? How about narrating the stories of those who in spite of all the difficulties, earn, do all household chores, raise their families and do all that with a smile . Let’s celebrate women in the ordinary walks of life! Before I celebrate Mother Teresa for soothing many souls and Indra Nooyi for heading a corporate giant, I celebrate my Mother. I bet most of us do that, placing our ‘Moms’ on a pedestal and applauding her. But my Mother is special. She was born with one hand. It’s very strange that I didn’t realize it for 21 years. I still remember when I was admitted and the nurse told her to hold my arm tightly but she couldn’t hold it tight enough (she was on the wrong side of the bed). The nurse asked her to try it with the other ha

I could be wrong, As I’ve always been. Treading the less traveled path, I've some unanswered questions within. Some black and white memories Some wounded old dreams. Feels like, Dragging this body for centuries. Tired of getting up after every crumple, I laugh with my eyes bleeding, Can I get some rest, some rest on your shoulder? I could be alone, As I’ve always been. *This poem was published in Rousing Cadence . **Please click on the image for better resolution.

Neither a million bucks, Nor the gold in my safe. Caresses my jittery thoughts, Reassures my dwindling faith. Hungry mind often wanders away, Quelling beliefs, finding logic. Penning looming thoughts calm the feud. Writing serves my appetite, writing is my food. People mocked me, they shunned me, I felt naked, without clothes. Sewing pride inch by inch, Draped semi-clad body in poetry and prose. Vagabond I am, I ride high, In the wasted highlands, I never comply. Be in harsh weather, be in lost dome, Writing shelters my body, writing is my home. Writing to me is food, drape, and home, And I shall write, write and write. Gold, money shall wither away, Live life in black and white.                         *This post is part of the Write Over The Weekend , an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda. **Read the footnote here.

Somewhere from north-east, Can't be sure when. Love came like a strong wind, And hit Ben. Unlike the colors of fall,  It was black and white. Near the patio of his house, Golden rays placed a spotlight. She wasn't a fairy,  Wasn't a queen, A girl dressed in black in her teens. Love, that too at first sight, Kindled a never-ending romance. Mary was blessed for life, Though, she met Ben by chance. I'm Stella,  Fixing the trim of a wedding gown. Many years ago, I too, lived in this town. I too loved someone, but my story was undone. My daughter Mary is marrying Ben, and Ben is John's son. John said when we bid adieu, Love always finds its way, If love is true. What John and I started, That story is now done, Our kids are marrying today, And a new story has begun.

I'm no Van Gogh, I'm no Voltaire. But I want honesty, that's all I care. It's like a bee sting, you all will agree. When some trashy post gets 50 comments and your masterpiece just three. All that glitters is not gold, behold and contemplate. 'Art' needs honest feedback to stimulate. You become a monk with no Ferrari or Car. 'Nice Post,' 'Likes' - such comments leave indelible scars. He read Or was I simply plain? Seriously! sanity is so difficult to sustain. Walking down the aisle I peek taking a pause, Shall I take a bow for fake applause? Dear, Mutual Admiration Society, read, critique and say. An honest comment just makes my day. * This is my second attempt on refining the art of commenting. Read the failed attempt  here.   **Read the footnote here

Mirror mirror on the wall, Who's fairest of them all? I'm Mona Lisa and she is plain, But the truth is - we all are  vain.