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.
As a child
My class teacher
Would scribble on the board
“God is one”
Everyday, as she’d adjust her Burkha
She once told me his name is Allah.
Back at home
A temple inhabited by
And my grandmother would tell me
The blue one is Shiva
The blue one with the lady is Vishnu
The blue one with the flute is Krishna
Veena is Saraswati
And we don’t worship Bramha;
And my neighbors would worship another God
They’d say he has no face, they’d call him Vaheguru
My friend who brings me plum cakes on Christmas
And so I’ll tell my grandfather
When I’m drowning in a river
I’d call all of them together
And he’d say
I would never be saved that way
That our God is our God
And their God is theirs
And no one would eventually show up to save me
If I start to worship them all the same.
Some people have even told me
We’re all God’s children
And he loves us all
Yet, in the same breath they’d say
I’d go to hell for loving who I want to
And on certain days of the month, he wouldn’t want me on his doorstep
Some of us, he loves more than others.
And I see people bombing other people
To make Him happy
I see kids dying
While their mothers pray to their Gods
I see people burning and breaking
Homes and families
All in his name
I see sad eyes
Spilled all around me.
So when God comes at my doorstep
I’d want to enquire about
His caste and class and religion and race and nationality
So as to tell him if
He can really enter my house;
I’d want to ask about
Dying and hungry and sad kids
And who’s God is he really
I’d ask him for a bloody long due apology.
I have grown seeing too many women
That they can’t tell apart affection from affliction
And so they keep mum
Drowning in the labyrinths of society’s lies.
I’ve seen women cleaning the mess
Of their lovers
Day and night
Accepting that love hurts at times
All the time
Leaving ugly scars they hide
With layers of makeup.
I’ve been told being beautiful
Is a liability, a curse womanhood has endowned upon me
And it’s okay if people touch me
For that is what I really want.
To be touched, to be fucked; consent is a lie made up by
Some immodest women who pronounce “yes” as “no”.
I have been long looking for
Durgas who slay demons who walk around
Sitas who don’t permit society
To judge her on the basis of her purity
Radhas who love shamelessly
Kalis who speak of truths no one wants her to say out loud.
And here I say
To the women who were silenced
But spoke up anyway
Who knew they are
So much more than what society lets them be
Who fought, and are still fighting;
I’m tired of looking up to sculptures and mythical stories
I bow down to you instead.
Neon lights, blinding lights
Colours and shimmer
A fair of lust and pain
Games of helplessness
Pieces of cloth, hanging loose to the body
Giving peeks to all the glitter-
All the glitter, that can never be gold.
Used and abused,
Yet smiling women.
Hiding their puffed up eyes
Behind layers of makeup
From all the nights they couldn’t sleep-
From each and every night
Ugly, cunning scars
From the visitor’s eyes
Ready for new ones.
And every day is the same
Another night of helplessness,
Another choking dream,
Another shattering hope.
Beautiful, sold bodies
Dancing in the neon lights
In all these shining, enchanting
Everyday, something is damaged
Everyday, something is sold
Everyday, something dies.
I do not contain rhythms inside me
I sway up and down
In and out
Of the peripheries of your love
Like the waves of the ocean
Merely touching your feet
Like your feet
Shying away from water
I don’t rhyme
To your heartbeat
I string down
Lose to your tongue
Almost like I belong there
I am the free verses of your poetry.
My fingers flutter through
And the stubble on your cheeks
And I think how
I’ve always liked men with a beard
But not on you.
You have a habit
Of holding my hand when we cross a street
And when we watch a horror movie
And I ask you why won’t you let me go out in the dark.
You’re scared, you mumble.
You see, my love,
There’s a right amount of everything:
Every aroma, every word, every gaze.
You sometimes say the wrong things at the right times
The right things at the wrong time
You speak too much, and not at all
Holding me close with your gaze like your favourite toy
Smiling like you’ll never smile at a woman again.
There’s a right amount of everything.
And you’ll learn it with every hand you hold, every time a heart breaks.
And you’ll make an equation, for the next woman who’ll warm your bed
Not too much
Not too little
Just the right amount of love.
But right now, you’re just a boy.
And you don’t measure, for this is all you know.
You’re a boy
Maybe I’ll wait for you to learn
Maybe I’ll wish you don’t.
I see your eyes,
Soft when they touch me
And your fingers tracing
The air between the two of us
Like an invisible wall, an incomplete thread
A pattern you can’t solve;
And I don’t want to realise
That he’s never looked at me
The way you do,
But I do.
You say that unrequited has its own perks
It never makes me ordinary for you
I never wear out
You say you never want to forget that.
I ask you, “Have you ever felt guilty of not loving someone back?”
You laugh, it’s beautiful
But not as beautiful as his.
I ask you again, “Why me?”
And you tell me
“We accept the love we think we deserve,
But we choose our own poison.”
When people ask you, what is luck
Tell them it’s an artist struggling for the right words
Before finding the one that fits perfectly.
It’s an orator, influencing millions
With shaky fingers cold feet.
The number of drafts on a writers desk
Before stumbling upon the best story
The number of failed experiments
Before accidentally finding a theory
The delicacy in a chef’s movements
Or in the dance of a warrior, as he slays enemies.
When people tell you, you were just lucky
Text them you were,
With sleepless nights and deadends
And struggling with oneself to not give up
And failing a hundred times
Before you really were lucky, just like everyone else.