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How I secured my place in the field.

Well, this is just an incident i would love to share with you all. Thankyou for reading :).

I’ve always had this passion for football, maybe much more than the boys who play better than me in the park everyday. Even after being told by practically everyone not to go play with them, i picked up myself rather confidently hoping no one would notice the scared and awkward girl behind that tough wall. Not hard to guess, they said they dont play with girls. That actually hit hard on my esteem, bit quite unbashed i tried my best to fit in. I fell, and picked up myself without complaining. Everyone would make fun of me, constantly reminding me i dont belong here. Some of the boys did realise my love for the game was bigger than my ego and had no other choice but to pass the ball occasionally.

Nothing has changed; i still fight everyday, i still fall, help myself, get occasional passes and high-fives, but now the boys are used to my presence and i am used to their attitude.

Now i’m the only girl they would play with and wait for to come down in the same confident way everyday.

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Little things

Remember falling on your bed after a long day
And waking up a little late?
Going to a new cafe or trying a new dish
The little excitement and rush of it?
Feeling on top of the world
By standing on your balcony and looking down at the veins of your city,
or even by scoring a perfect goal?
Perfecting playing a song on your guitar you had been trying for long;
Or accidentally finding a song which describes all your emotions you couldn’t?
Ever felt the happiness of finding a ten ruppee coin in your pocket;
Or even getting an extra paani puri?
Maybe we’re too busy trying to find happiness
To ever slow down and look around us
To ever lie beneath the starts and discover constellations
To hear birds chirping, crickets singing or admire art and artists.
When one day someone asks me what happiness is,
I wish not to sigh and regret I spent a life chasing it
Rather than feelings the essence of such moments
For the little things aren’t little
Only if we pay attention.

A Woman Like Me

A Woman Like Me

I want to be like the woman who writes all my poetries.
She seems brave to me.
She claims to have seized demons and monsters
Alluring, yet hard to believe.
She talks about battles and about love
And I’m scared of both the worlds,
Her anger fills me with courage and pride
Yet why do I find myself shying away
From saying anything on my mind?
She sounds passionate to me
I imagine her as being bright eyed, and steady
With a purpose, and the courage to believe she can change the world
She sounds too perfect to me.
A bit like magic, sorcery.
It seems her bones are made of something
So very different from my own
Her soul has seen the same battles as mine
And their scars she proudly adorns
And I’m still trying to stop them from hurting.
I wish I could be
As charming, powerful, valiant
Like her
I wish I could be
More like me.

An Open Letter To Women

Dear women,

I admire each one of you.

All the mothers, sisters, friends around me,

For your strength, patience, compassion.

Yet, I’m afraid to make any of you my role models.

I’m afraid to have unattended

Marks, bruises, burns, adorning my body;

Or silently weeping with pain despite which I’ll toil endlessly

Damaging myself, bit by bit.

I’m afraid to let my children have

All of the pastry I had been craving to eat for weeks, and had finally bought with utter excitement.

I’m afraid to believe that

Neglecting my happiness for others

Is not a big deal; moreover it’s my duty, fate, and worst of all,

something to be proud of, a mark of superiority.

You see, women,

Your strength is extraordinary.

But don’t mistake your unattended injuries as trophies.

Stop believing you’re better

Just because you were never given the choice, between good and bad.

Not having claws

Doesn’t mean you’re on the side of the angels;

It just means you never had the power

To choose your side.

In your responsibilities

As a mother, sister, woman

You’ve been somewhere neglecting your foremost responsibility

The one to yourself.

So dear women,

This women’s day

Before asking the society for

Equal treatment, rights, care, compassion,

Importance,

Treat yourself with all that your gender has been demanding for centuries,

This women’s day, start with yourself.

“Why don’t you tell your story?”

I don’t think poetry is really for me

as I struggle between

short Instagram pieces

to heart wrenching spoken word poetry.

I don’t find myself playing carefully

with metaphors, paradoxes, similes

the world might have a lot to offer for people ‘like me’

but I don’t have it in the category

of poets with #hashtags and black Kohl eyes

And a soft voice

Which drops low at the exact time

with hands dancing on the rhythm

and perfect pauses

and sighs

that made people skip a beat.

Me? I am a bit to ordinary

will you really want to hear me?

sluttering my way through

heartbreaks,loves, misery

stumbling upon stories deep in my heart

looking away, mumbling

with heartbeat louder than my words

like a beating drums

are my stories worthy of the world?

Maybe I’ll be the only one ever

sighing softly as I read my words

and feel the magic

maybe that is enough for me.