INTROSPECT

Around the round table, sat all. All from different ages, having varying wages. Different bodies, sizes, shapes and minds. With some having something more than the others. They were given half an hour, To maintain silence, to observe, To dive deep into those thoughts and sights, Most thought of the things they have and of the things they might. But I promised myself not to be judgemental. "Oh! To be young", thought the old lady, "His watch is at least a couple of thousands bu

There is a rush in the fall As the wind swept through my burning wax - Was molding onto my skin It is unlike anything. I flew too close they say That I was too greedy and I made a mistake But there was nothing else I could do To soothe this persistent ache My hands yearned to rhyme I could see the light Bright and achievable Nothing could stop me Ambition gave me flight Oh how pretty was the sight As each cloud parted, destiny came clearer Stretching out my palm for that ecst

What did she ever do wrong? What was she to know? Death, destruction, debilitation - Violence known and unknown- No, she was all too convenient to blame For what was she but a silly girl Who got a bit curious A girl must not falter A pretty box and a mystery She would keep it safe and closed No one believed she would dare And yet alas! She did. The age old credence The assumption of naive innocence Curiosity killed the cat And she never intended any of that. It is a familiar

“ Aye Chotu” – a commonly heard phrase near roadside tea stalls. Usually, the youngest member of the family is called chotu - a term of endearment and love. But, the story shifts for the young ones shouldered with the responsibility of earning their family’s bread and butter. The name signifies innocence and endearment for the youngest, yet for those saddled with the job of being the ‘man’ of the house it denotes their position. Their identity lost in the squalor and similar

Her paper withered, Indeed, to be watered with ink, To bloom poesy. Sprouted none. Trespassed a spider, Over the barren land of paper, Climbing the wall beside. None was it, but Arachne, Knitting its tapestry upon the wall. Bane was its boon, Knitted, knitting and will knit... Tuned not only, Robert the Bruce in the cave, Even oozed ink from her pen. A dot, turned art, Its layers as stars, Weaving its ceaseless haven. Web weaved her words, Curves penning her cursive, As the l

Cursed to be scapegoats, Born or drawn? Both. From Leda to Helen, Ahalya to Medusa, Vedavahi to Sita, Ruma to Europa, Geographically scattered, Tied to strangle via gender thread. Lust, as a gun dust, Shoots to bleed. Metamorphoses to molest, Into a swan, deer, bull, Impersonating even as a husband, At times, disguised as a brother-in-law. Inherited innocence, Mistaken for ignorance. Crime be his, Curse be hers. Ahalya, abandons to stone, Medusa, misfortunes to stone, Mislabe

Buried, no more, In the pages of Greece. Roam I, on the road, Of this day and age. Path, painted in pitch-black. Can't smell a feminine glow, Yet a pungent perspire, Camouflaged in every bush. No vibes of vigilance, For this forlorn woman. Stroll with no stress, Unlike a typical woman does. Legs won't wheel, Despite encountering Poseidon. If whistles be his, Let my snaked hair hiss. In case of a vitriol attack, Be it my venom attack, To fence the femininity, From the fiend.