the clouds weren’t at duel with the sun; it was shining ever so bright. bright enough to shed light on my aching hollow chest that was bleeding dry from the night it just endured.

i walk to the balcony with the cup of coffee i poured for myself before everybody was awake, so i didn’t have to see it on their rueful faces that what happened was true and i hadn’t imagined all that. someone will wake up and tell me it was all a dream. and i can go on about my day, shaking less slightly. i notice the busy streets, people rushing to live their lives, the hush and rush in the way people walk, as if death at the end of the street might catch up to them.

the morning after-

i look into the mirror one last time, before someone rushes me to the burial ground. we have the same eyes, so I tremble because I may have just caught a glimpse of him. the world only saw rage within our eyes; but only we knew this anger was once hurt, once sadness, once love. now I’m just the angry man’s angry daughter. cross that. angry misunderstood daughter.

a terror creeps in me silently, but it was loud enough for me to pass out on the bed. i tremble, i shake, i panic, but i quickly hold back the tears before anyone found me vulnerable and not the strong girl they could count on.

i become so mad like a mad dog would. no note? no letter? no explanation? no last hugs and final words? how could he not say goodbye? was i not worth saying goodbye to? was i not enough to stay? what now?

the night before-

you do not realize how strong you can get until you have no choice but to be. the one who brought me to this world left it. left it while i was still holding his hands. trying to bring life back to the one who gave me life. i get on my knees, trembling, bleeding through my pants, the whole world watching me and I rub his hands, knowing i will never hold them again. defeat was near as i could see breath leave his body. at that moment i wished i could give him mine. no last words. no goodbyes. no silent prayers. i did not have the courage to speak to him. my face filled with shame, i couldn’t save what could’ve been. what could I have said to raise him from the dead? perhaps, he couldn’t muster up the courage to say goodbye to me. that was the explanation i gave myself to maintain my sanity.

no one will know how lonely that night felt. the world on your shoulders. running through the hospital hallways. i pour all my college savings for the man i could no longer recognize. bargaining with god to just bring him back. i thought my world had ended. but the world doesn’t stop for you. the doctors await their next case, families celebrating in corridors of the hospital walls cause someone was born. the ambulance driver impatiently finishing carrying bodies around, to go home. another patient needs the stretcher your loved one just lay on. no, the world doesn’t wait for you.

darkness spread like a fever. my world shattered. the unimaginable has happened. him wrapped in cloth as I enter the room. I wanted to creep up next to him under the cloth and pretend the world has ended. buried six feet under until the maggots come for me. at least then, i would be on his chest, lying next to him, like little me would, every summer night.

the morning after-

i see his face, one last time. it wasn’t him. it wasn’t the same man who i spent every waking hour with. it wasn’t the same man who was so full of life, just the day before. the man i spent my entire childhood with, eating fruit under the tree, playing shuttle late nights & early mornings in the street i grew up in. the same man who taught me to be as tough as him. the man who gave me endless piggyback rides. the man i imagined would become an old wrinkly man, see me graduate, get married, give my children endless piggyback rides, cut fruit for me even when his hands are old and tired.

he is now buried in a casket, six feet under, with a garland of roses lying on his chest. when the maggots come for him, will they taste all the love he had never shown me?

does he also reminisce the last time i touched his hands and yearn for another? does he see my endless panic attacks and regret what he did? does he think of me while he looks at the moon like I do?

who do you become when the one who is supposed to see you grow up decides to quit? do you quit too? who do you look up to? who do you talk to when the sky looks empty? who do you believe when your trust in life is rigged? how do you get yourself to believe again when there’s no ounce of hope left? and the lingering pain in your chest no longer becomes a concern, but a habit? how do you not remain angry at the world for not stopping so you could mourn?

present day-

grief is weird because everybody gives you a timeline for you to get over a person. how long can you rest your head upon your friend’s shoulder? how long will someone let me remember him on every big day? how long until the world doesn’t have space for my burdens?

carry them. carry that person. take them with you everywhere you go, despite the world’s reminders for you to forget them. live everyday unafraid that death at the end of the street might pursue you, if you don’t rush. shed those tears for them on your big days. on your low days, and on the happy days. even if i don’t, guilt will eat me alive for not doing my part.

i almost vomit my sorrow when my good friends ask me how i’ve been doing, but, there are no coherent words or words that would suffice to take me away from all the baggage that i’ve been carrying, and so i swallow my vomit of sorrow and now it’s stuck in my throat, unwilling to stay within and reluctant to come out.

grief, to me, tastes like gulping ceramic plates down until my insides bleed, the wound remains invisible to the naked eye and, nobody writes a “get well soon” on my bandages. my scars are discreet. but the claw marks i’ve left on people are not.

i’m going to be on the other side someday, and i will see him again. because-

what is life if not a break from eternity?

for now, grief is my friend and sorrow is my muse.

love, always

liv

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it was one of those days that makes you want to fix your life and change everything about it. i’m sure you know what i’m talking about. the intense urge to revamp your life and turn it upside down at 3 am, a thumb that is almost paralyzed, with achy eyes that beg to call it a day and the pressing weight of the glowing gadget on your pinky, that makes an irreversible dent on it, but it doesn’t matter as long as the next pinterest idea that is added to your board makes the idealized life you’ve been living a little better.

one of those days where all the bottled feelings vomit without your consent, unannounced and agonizingly. somewhere along the busy night, my chipped black nails managed to grab my dying attention span and, a thought fought its way to the foreground of my mind, that i don’t paint them anymore. (i paint them often enough, when i’m in the mood, or when i have time and there’s an occasion on the way.)

by anymore, i mean, not in the way i used to, my younger self would sit in the balcony every weekend, line all her nail paints next to her, like they were clothes waiting to be put on, pretending she was a nail artist for a living. she would paint really bright, vivid colors; warm or cool tones didn’t matter. glitter always welcomed. patterns, polka dots, lines, carefully painting them without getting it on the sides of the nail. but, it always ended up on the sides of the nail. and that would still make her happy.

and of course, nostalgia does what it does best. yearn for a past that won’t return. so i recreate

I jump out of bed like a fish out of water, i bring out all of my nail paints, i notice the dust settled on them, i dust the bottles out and build a queue for them, like they’re my customers, i start experimenting with popping colors, this time around i draw ladybugs on them, i immediately feel the attention of my younger child beaming with enthusiasm, as if this was the only interesting thing i have done that has impressed her. i feel her presence the most when i dab glittery eyeshadow with my brush onto the corner of my eyelids. when i sit hunched down on the floor to do my watercolors. when i tuck flowers into my messy untangled wavy hair. when i revamp my room like it’s my canvas and i’m the color.

younger me would hate me for viewing the world in a monochromatic lens. seriously, when did i forget to add whimsy to my life? not the kind of “whimsy” that makes you add things to your cart. or add ideas to your boards. you do not need to adhere to the chronically offline trend, read the book of the month that everyone’s talking about. buy cutesy things to romanticize your life. take a video stirring your coffee real slow. maintain a gratitude journal. put on satin pillow cases. Buy more “whimsical” looking crockery. burn a candle while taking a bath. get flowers and arrange them in your living room. fill your room with ambient lighting, to achieve whimsy.

the kind of whimsy where i don’t forget i can hold a paintbrush and turn the sky pink if i want it to be. the kind where i don’t succumb to minimalism because the world chooses to be. the kind where i refuse to lose color when monochromatic becomes the aesthetic. the kind where i don’t let color die in a ‘cloud dancer’ world, is the one i want to achieve.

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a cold rainy morning,

the sky and the sea,

you cannot tell them apart,

a blurry line collides them,

two worlds admired from afar.

they say I remind them of you,

perhaps, it is our eyes

or the rage that we carry deep within them.

I look into the mirror

to catch glimpses of you,

think of all the times you held me,

I count them on my fingers.

perhaps, you think of all the times I called you,

you count them on your fingers too.

they tell me I look just

like you,

like a hazy horizon,

we are two shades of the same blue

pretending not to know each other,

the rain stops to pour

the haze lifts off,

the blurred line, long gone.

they never collided,

two worlds, diverged

with the gap between them, unbridged.

we are two shades of the same blue

pretending not to know each other.

Come back for more :)

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To be a woman is to shrink yourself down to the standards that were written for you, by the fathers of patriarchy.

To be a woman is to feel generational rage in your bones.

To be a woman is not wanting your mother’s life for yourself.

To be a woman is to relate to Olivia Rodrigo’s songs.

To be a woman is to watch Barbie by Greta Gerwig and not be surprised how Ryan Gosling won the award for the film (typical).

To be a woman is to be a conceptual performance piece.

To be a woman is to want and want and want.

But, what more do women want? Don’t we have enough? We have voting rights, access to bank accounts, can do a 9-5, walk on the street, have opinions and….um, breathe? yeah that’s quite a lot of freedom and space we’ve reclaimed.

How I love being a woman *(deep sigh)*

Here’s my answer

Women now have autonomy, although not all women it still comes at a price - a very heavy one. We are taxed by society, our families, workplaces, streets, the Internet, and everywhere, simply for being, existing, living. So, do we really have autonomy? Or are we just sold control repackaged differently?

Have you ever had this question in mind? Why do women constantly ask, demand for things? When and why have we become so rebellious? Why has every woman on the Internet become a man-hater? Why are we not satisfied with what we have?

It’s because it was never yours to give. It was never yours to borrow. It was never yours to steal.

We want to make it home at the end of the day.

We want to walk on streets without being catcalled or followed.

We want to be seen for our ambitions, and talent, not just our bodies.

We want to make our own choices for our lives, be it marriage, kids, divorce.

We want to not be morally policed for our dressing choices, modest or not.

We want to unlive the trauma of being sexually assaulted.

We want women in Afghanistan to have basic human rights.

We want every woman to have the fortunate privilege to choose for herself. Unfortunately, it's not a given.

Until then, we’ll want and want and want

But, at least we don’t want revenge.

We're reclaiming what always should've been ours- equality, humanity, opportunity, freedom.

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The hidden labor of being a woman

It’s alarming how society has stripped humanness from women.

We are not to be seen metaphorically and also literally.

From the minute you start your first period-CONGRATS!! Welcome to Womanhood.

You are not supposed to talk about it. Your hair on your body? Yeah, wax it, shave it, tweeze it. Your body? It’s no longer yours; it’s up for debate. If you’re thin, you need to gain weight. Here’s the catch- only in the right places. And if you’re not, you need to shrink. You obviously have to wear a bra, because god forbid your nipples are seen through your shirt. They cannot be seen. Cover your breasts, aka take your dupatta everywhere you go. Hide the bra, too. No one needs to know you’re wearing one. Your shoulders? They’re obviously distracting. Cover them up. The skirt and the short dresses should be long enough to cover your knees. Are you bleeding? Go, get your pads from the closet hidden somewhere in the drawers. Have you got cramps? Hide it. Your mum is probably experiencing menopause, but she won’t tell you that because we have all been conditioned to hold onto the secret from the “superior” half of the population that, we are human.

Being a woman is exhausting. Humans are meant to be seen. Yet, we are constantly asked to hide ourselves, shrink ourselves to make someone else comfortable. Yes, just like how you sit shrinking and crouching uncomfortably so the man sitting next to you can man-spread.

The comfort of men is more respected and sought after than half the population. What we’re asked to hide becomes a taboo. These taboos perpetuate stigma, affecting women’s lives.

The entire world has its eyes on what we choose to do with our bodies. Choice? None. Freedom? Apparently, we have enough. The concept of marriage is taught to us before we even begin to bear ambitions. The burden of adjusting to a bad marriage, again, falls on the woman. We’d rather let women regret their marriages than go without one. We are conditioned to be nurturers, before we begin to fathom the endless responsibility of being a mother. We are not allowed, frowned upon or judged, if we decide not to become what the world wants us to be. Rapists, perhaps, roam freer than a woman who has decided to abort, for better or worse. Harsh, but true.

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Women's perspectives are overlooked - in designing and decision making

The medical system, automobiles, clinical trials, health care system, workplace temperatures, office spaces, infrastructure, military equipment, and as basic as toothpaste, were predominantly designed with men in mind. The comfort, the risk factors, the danger, and the increased risk of poor health for women are overlooked and dismissed. If you’re a woman and you’ve walked into the gynecologist’s office before, you already know how invasive and unhelpful the experience is.

We’ve all watched the guys on YouTube Shorts & Instagram reels shrieking and squealing in distress while being plugged to the period pain stimulator, and we’ve taken a good laugh. However, it irritates me every time a guy says “woah, there is no way it is this bad”, “I will wash the dishes from now on”, and many more comments that show that these men required technology that stimulates pain to understand women, not basic empathy.

“Boys are loved and girls are raised. We raise them to be strong, and sometimes we take care not to hurt men. And I think we pay for that a little bit”, said Michelle Obama, in a summit, and this makes so much sense. Before we’re taught to be anything, we are raised to be convenient.

“What do women even want?”

We want to be seen, not as aesthetics, not as objects, but as humans, as equals, to let us be.

We're not speaking in riddles.

Yet, they act as if they do not understand our language.

They paint us as complicated beings who are beyond comprehension.

If that is the case, female friendships would never be successful.

The slut shaming, victim blaming, cat calling, tiring honestly, to even complain.

The constant objectification before you even start feeling like a woman.

Here’s the catch-

You cannot hide too much, otherwise you’re just conservative and boring.

You cannot reveal too much then you’re just seeking for attention.

Your desire to express your individuality through makeup is not applauded, because women should be beautiful naturally.

And when you take your makeup off to be “natural”, geez, at least try.

If you’re too smart, tone it down a notch. Men can find it intimidating. Let him mansplain it to you, instead.

We do so much to fit into the box you put us in.

Yet, we never seem to satisfy the whims of the world.

Patriarchy bargains so much from women, perhaps, the real question should have always been- “What do men even want?” Not because what they want from women matters. But they seem to want a lot.

The leavers are here,

They leave before it's dawn,

They leave before you can mourn.

They arrive with their packed bags,

But they leave yours open,

You grow flowers in their garden,

But they don't linger long to see them bloom,

Never long enough to pardon,

Their houses don't have enough room,

For another.

The leavers are here,

They leave before it's dawn,

They leave before you can mourn.

They never intended to stay,

You're only meant to walk with them half way.

The leavers are long gone,

To chase another horizon.

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I crossed paths with grief today,

She smiled at me like she had known me for a while.

I clasped my hands tightly to pray-

But she slipped through the cracks of my fingers anyway.

Coffin buried,

Flowers withered,

Time hurried,

Well-wishers recovered.

Yet she holds my hand through the halls I once walked in,

In the car rides, and on Christmas nights;

I crossed paths with grief again today,

And this time, she didn’t smile at me.

I clasped my hands tightly to pray-

But she has already made her home within,

She is like a flower growing through concrete,

Determined and here to stay.

I no longer cross paths with her-

I am crowded by her presence.

I recently watched Voicemails for Isabelle (if you haven’t, run to Netflix immediately), and I bawled my eyes out, not because Nick Robinson was running through traffic in the rain with Beautiful Things by Benson Boone playing under pink and purple fireworks in the background so he could confess his feelings to the girl he just realized he is in love with.

The movie captures how your sister is the love of your life, despite having a man you’re in love with. In the words of Jill, she didn’t need a man. She didn’t need one to complete her, fulfill her, or make the void go away. She already had the greatest love of her life, her sister. What makes Wes special is that he understands he will never be able to fill her shoes, nor should he try to.

It’s funny how, when you’re growing up, you don’t realize the memories you make with your sister will be pieces that you hold onto forever. The photographs, the fights, the secrets, the unsuccessful slime making with shampoo, watching the same Barbie movies over and over, sharing and caring, the competitive phase, the comparison phase, the enemies phase, the best friends forever phase, they slowly become a fragment of your heart. A part of yourself, a soulmate, dare I say.

One day, you’re eleven, waking up next to each other after an entire night of gossip about the whole family, not knowing when you fell asleep. The next day you’re all grown up, living in different cities, sending unnecessarily long voice notes about how bad your day was, and of course ending up gossiping about the entire family, once again.

Jill knew she’d lose her sister, but nothing could have prepared her to live without her. They even made a deal that they would die like Noah & Allie in The Notebook. You can certainly live without a man, spend your entire life without that great love that apparently cannot be missed. All the time you spend with a boy can never match all the unfunny jokes you and your sister laugh about.

DO NOT GET ME WRONG. If a man is supposedly the love of your life, then why do I hear so many married/ taken women talk to their sisters for hours, almost every evening, sipping coffee on the balcony, laughing and gossiping over the same for weeks. It’s almost a routine- perhaps, a routine they wait their entire day for. Those moments must fix something in them that nobody else can, no matter how hard they try. Those moments must bring them peace, a sense of relief.

This generation’s version of it is leaving lengthy voice notes, picking each other’s date outfits, talk about that one boy over and over until the other is sick of it (They surprisingly never do), stealing skin care routines and expensive makeup, taking hundreds of pictures of each other at the same spot, overanalyzing what their next Instagram post should look like, and the list goes on…

So I get why Jill calls her sister “the love of her life”.

The reason this movie resonated with so many is that every girl watching knew deep within that they would do the exact thing Jill did, or worse. The movie didn’t end with Jill & Wes getting married, as a cutesy rom-com would end, it ended with Jill & her sister dancing again, like they would when they were kids, and that, people, is what girls really want.

It got me thinking about what I would do without mine, because she really is the love of my life, and the boys in our lives would have to deal with that.