The wine, deep red, rests in the glass

cool and steady, it almost hides the broken shards.

As he takes a sip, I bite the corner of my lip

praying to the God in every language that he gets destroyed like a drowning ship.

It was supposed to be a romantic dinner.

Not a game where I was the pre-decided winner.

The cigarette he's smoking, the evidence of his addiction is carved into my arms and thighs,

the sweet words he mutters to me are all lies.

During dinner he's a gentleman

then he's a raging monster that no one can

stop, much less me, a delicate flower of a woman

who he's never let see outside the window past the sun.

“Tell me you're mine,” he says to me three weeks after we met.

And I did, what a fool I am, but he had his heart set.

Only I hadn't known that he has no heart

and he only wanted to break me apart.

Piece by piece, skin by skin,

in the battle of forced intimacy he always wins.

I had no voice: “Women of our family don't speak so much, darling.”

Only I hadn't known that it was a clear red warning.

Run. I should run.

But where if I have no one?

This prison I call my home

is the only thing I've fully known.

So I stay. And I wait.

The days pass, at night I lay awake.

And today, it ends. For good, I say.

My eyes eye my unfinished plate

as his lips meet the glass, and I see him swallow a shard.

He coughs and coughs, I play the part of a devastated wife;

now I finally have it back, my Dear life.

You’re seething with anger and I’m standing on my toes,

all you scathe women, all your friends and foes.

My dress is too flashy, my words are too nasty;

I’m inviting a hundred men to come and have me.

Knee length is propriety, 

but I look too slutty,

because the dress reaches my mid-thigh,

oh, how could I ever cross the line?

Come gaze at my legs and arms

and the sleeveless top is a violent alarm.

Be alert, innocent boys, a filthy lady is coming this way

as I’m declared uncountable names every night and throughout the day.

Men are right.

Why do we need to fight?

They treat us like Barbie dolls,

so what if they break us and call us all molls?

Men are right.

We should have no right.

Our body is theirs, our minds don't work.

We can't even tell the difference between a spoon and a fork.

Love.

I have always wanted to love.

I have loved.

I know love.

But I do not know who I love.

The warmth that spreads like a wildfire inside my heart, the reason for it is unknown to me.

I smile. I laugh. I glow with affection. But for whom? I do not know…

To be a lover, do you need a beloved?

I can love just the idea of love. Is it a rule to have someone or something to love? To be called a lover?

The very core of it, I love everything that love does to me.

The joy, the grief, the floral and the dried leaves.

I stay through each phase and smile,

for love is the only reason I stay alive.

I buy flowers, but I give them to none,

I stand by the shore, kissed by the sun.

Not someone, the sun.

There is no beloved… I am only a lover.

I capture the spring bloom into a blazing summer.

No hand to hold mine,

only one glass of white wine.

I am a lover, with no beloved.

I am a home, with no family living in it.

I am a tree, no flowers blooming on its branches.

I am a sea, no mermaid in it dances.

Is the Cherry on her lips lipstick or is it blood? It's lipstick if you love her, and it's blood if she loves you.

There's red on her cheeks, too, and so is in her eyes. Rage, love, passion, danger, strength, power, sacrifice.

Which of these reds is on her lips and in her eyes?

Anger in her eyes, passion on her lips. Love on her lips and sacrifice in her eyes.

She smiles red, her eyes flare with rage.

Red may be all these emotions, but red is silence, too.

The blood that rushes to your palms when you tighten your fist, the blood that rushes to your lips when you press them a little firmer against each other so that you don't speak.

Red is silence, loud and nuisance, echoing in the corner of every room it consumes.

With love, my Dear, is laced the plea I whisper in your ears. Do love me if you can, for without it I am silently becoming the ashes one decomposes, the shattered glass one bleeds because of, the storm kind souls are scared of, and the poison cruel souls feed on.

For years now, I have been trying to ascertain what is it in your eyes that intrigues me, what is it in your voice that soothes my chaos, what is it your embrace that warms up my frozen love. With lips that can scathe my existence, you kiss my grief away.

WHY I LOVE YOU...

A brief question with an answer no parchment can hold, a brief curiosity that no revelation can satisfy. A perplexity no clarity can soothe, a tangled worry no consolation can silence.

This question, my Dear, you have asked me times more than I can count, petals more than these flowers that have grown in my heart in your absence cling to.

MAY YOU FIND YOUR ANSWER...

But may you find your answer, for I have none. From my lips you shall recieve only love and a prayer of your name, but no answer that will respond to your questions. I was made to worship, not to communicate it. A chanting of your name rests untouched on my lips, a faint memory of your eyes etched in the corners of mine, I carry your voice in my veins and your words woven in the flesh my heart. The fifth downpour I will confess my love to you, as has my God told me to, but fate shall decide if there will be a fifth downpour. The third has nearly eroded my skin as I wait for the next.

Ask me about myself

and watch my mouth seal.

I have spent days helping others

but have never thought twice about how I feel.

I clutch at a dead man’s hand

and expect it to lace its fingers through mine

not realizing that it is a corpse

and not a wound that gets better over time.

That is the story of myself

never known to my own self

I who have never known myself

am yet to ascertain my true self.

“No, no. We have reached equality.”

Words I heard today from my classmate. And I was about to throw hands. For one, someone whose parents are able and pay more than a lakh per school year as fees, she has no right to say something like that.

One of my other classmates, her friend, tried to say something to contradict her, but before she could, this girl said something like “Does your family discriminate between girls and boys?” and the other classmate said no and she said “Then. Of course we've reached it.”

The latter classmate again tried to say something. “But that doesn't mean—”

“Abhi thoda toh har society me rehta hai.”

(Translation: A little (inequality) is inevitable in every society.)

Applaud worthy argument. She's considered one of the best speakers in our class. And of course she's homophobic too. (It is unrelated to gender equality but equality nonetheless.)

My blood boiled when I heard this, but then the teacher came in so I shut up.

But we need to address this. Saying “we have reached equality,” while the women in several countries are not even allowed to breathe in public?

Let's put other countries aside.

In our own country, India, 80-90 women get raped every day. How have we reached equality?

Women are condemned for wearing short clothes while men are told nothing when they are the ones gazing up at their skin with their sinister eyes. How have we reached equality?

In a country that ranks 131st out of 148 countries in the World Economic Forum’s Global Gender Gap Report, how have we reached equality?

Where women are paid only around 73% of what men are paid for the same work, how have we reached equality?

In a country where women spend an average of 363 minutes per day on unpaid domestic and caregiving work, compared to just 123 minutes for men, how have we reached equality?

In a country where women make up only 13.6% (in the Lok Sabha) and 13% (in the Rajya Sabha) out of the total seats in the national Parliament, how have we reached equality?

In a country where even after the Supreme Court functioning for 76 years, there has been no female Chief Justice of India. How have we reached equality?

This is not all. Stay tuned for Part II!

India temporarily banned the use of Telegram over concerns of the paper leaks happening, mainly the NEET-UG paper that had to be cancelled this year.

Was this the step that the students wanted? No. We wanted accountability. We wanted the Education Minister to own it and resign after so many failures. Because it's not just about NEET.

What is happening? These are not a few incidents over a long stretch of time. These are recent, still raw, and not taken action over.

After so many failures, the most basic thing to do is own these mistakes and get out of the office yourself, but our dear Education Minister is still very much in in power.

How is that fair? How is that justified? In a democracy, transparency is bare minimum. But here we're only seeing highly translucent and opaque screens.

These things make me question if the government really is for the people or not, because nine out of ten times, it's us taking the hit and they're the ones running.

I get that India is a very big country, but conducting an exam without errors is not rocket science when countries like China are doing it with nearly impeccable execution.

It's not just an exam, it's literally the future of these tens of lakhs of teenagers who have sacrificed the last couple of years of their lives for one single exam, and then you crush it between your fingers sitting in unreachable positions?

What we're asking for is simple. Accountability. Less errors.

A clean education system.

Not some rigged politics diluted into an already translucent system.

the bird on the left is upset because the other bird did not want to go for a fly together.

“let's go out in the sun!”

“no, honey, i'm a little tired.”

she quietly scooted back and turned her head away.

a soft, chilly breeze pushes the translucent fabric of the curtains aside, whispering in my ears.

“the sea misses you, dear, come walk along the shore.”

i had been staying at this hotel for three days but hadn't stepped out to go to the sea.

we hadn't spent any time together this week. baby, i missed you. i read all the notes you left on the nightstand before leaving early for work.

“you look exhausted. want to go to our place by the beach?”

“can we please sleep in and then walk by the shore at midnight?”

“we can do whatever you want, my love.”

the sun had started drowning in the sea when i woke up. i hadn't meant to fall asleep. the sky was orange and a soft shade of pink in the corners. you were lying beside me, reading a book.

“thank you, baby.” i shifted myself closer to you and laid my head against your chest as you wrapped your arm around me, putting the book upside down on the mat. you hated forgetting the page number.

“what for?”

“for collecting the shells. you know i love them.”

“so you’re thanking me for doing something you love? i thought it was well established that i love you.”

i chuckled softly.

“of course it is. but i just wanted to say it.”

“well, it's okay. you don't have to say it.”

i reached up and pressed a chaste kiss on your cheek.

“i love you.”

“i love you more.”

(the pictures are taken from pinterest, my camera isn't that aesthetic 😔)

I always wanted to be a part of that cool girls group, or the Cool Girls Group, since we’re categorizing it. I shifted cities a lot, so I didn't have a stable friend circle. I had to start from scratch every three years. This time it was my eleventh grade, so I decided it is a perfect opportunity to start fresh and make good friends that last the last two years of my school and more.

But guess who messed up. They didn't like me, and I was very politely ignored into leaving them alone. I really thought they were cool, and I was always the person who liked to talk a lot. They seemed nice, but were they? Absolutely not. My twelfth grade is yet to be over, but a year into being in the same class with them, I thank God every day for giving me the signal to not befriend them.

I was happy they rejected me.

But this realisation took time to come. Before that, for a month or so, I sat alone at lunch like every third year of my life. I brought a book with me and pretended to read while in reality I was just trying to not burst out crying then and there. It took a lot of blinking, trust me.

I wasn't new to the city, I have lived here before. But it was different through the eyes of a sixteen year old me, and suddenly I hated this city. My school, this city. Mainly because of the people I have to go to school with.

I blurred the lines between the place and the people. I only liked parts of it. Some of my old friends and a few new ones.

The bell for recess rings at 9:40 a.m. in my school, and the next twenty-five minutes were spent awkwardly the first few weeks.

My “can I sit with you?” was met with hesitant nods and half-yeses. They clearly didn't want me to sit with them, and I just left. To change schools after 10th grade is brutal, and I am not lying. I wish I could go back to my previous school.

Even though I hate them, I still want to be them sometimes. The fun hang-outs that they post on their Instagram, and I know it’s glamorized, but I still want the cool stories. Their Galentine’s celebration posts as I’m in my PJ’s and sipping on three-hours-old coffee.

It is a common inseurity, but a damn dreadful one.

I hate the Cool Girls Group. But sometimes, I wish I was something like that. This is my moral dilemma, because they not nice people. They have hearts of venom and don’t care about anyone but themselves. But they look so figured out in picture, it feels I haven't done anything in life.

Anyway, this post was more like getting myself out of my writer’s block. And a diary entry, perhaps.

when the sun sets and starts her rest,

and the moon comes up and it's a wailing crescent,

the crickets are asleep and the sparrows are in their nest,

will you still love me when there is no sound left?

the birds aren't humming,

the river is quietly running,

will you still love me

when the silence is deafening?

we made our coffees and burnt our toasts in the morning,

and the afternoon was spent in meetings that were boring,

then we ran out of things to talk about in the evening,

will you still love me if the night is wordless, too?

or will you try to fill the gaps

with unwanted words and comments

and a hundred different love sonnets?

i want you to love me even when there is nothing to say,

even when my eyes are screaming but my lips stay sealed the same way.

if i asked that of you, will you stay

or will you pull away?

my hands are full of emptiness, and there is diluted sorrow rotting on my palms.

what shall i do?

shall i wash it off?

but the soap is your love and your love is not to mine to have. your love can cleanse my soul, but isn't that the reason my soul keeps blackening by the second, because i don't have any of it?

dearest, can i borrow it for a moment?

a drop of your love is enough for a blissful lifetime.

a drop of your love can soothe me for an indefinite time.

they say words are not enough to describe your beauty, but i say there doesn’t exist a language beautiful enough to describe how ethereal you are.

they say worship a God, but i am your devotee. your name is my prayer that softens on my lips and melts in my voice.

i have no desire for you, but without your presence i would falter slowly.

and when they would collect the remaining fragments of me, they would only find memories of you in them.

You're so far, I can barely see you.

Come to me, I want to hide you in my arms and warm you up, it's winter.

I can blow cool air on your skin and protect you from the summer.

I will let the raindrops slap my skin so they can cascade on yours, it's monsoon.

You can walk around with a smile on your face

and I will hide the ashes of our memories without leaving a trace.

I will wait while you heal her wound,

and cheer you up on your love for her newfound.

You're everything without me,

but without you; I am nothing but a body.

A body with perfectly functioning lungs,

broken ribs and an absent heart,

for it lays under your bed from when I gave it to you and you kept it there, forgotten.

I may not feel cold or warm

but I can't help feeling forlorn.

You promised you'd be there,

so did you forget to hold my hand and keep the promises that you wear?

I know the problems around us. The corruption, the lies, the manipulation. And it's happening a lot, especially in India. But let's face it: it's not always the government. I don't support any political parties, nor am I an advocate for any. But this is what I feel.

Let's take an example.

Today, mid-travelling, my family and I took a break for dinner. My mum and I went to the washroom. We entered and instantly had to cover our noses because the smell was nauseating. Then I opened the door to a stall and guess what I found.

A used pad.

There was a trash can in that very stall, but the used pad was on the floor.

Did the government do this? No. It was the people.

Now it isn't new to any of us Indians that public washrooms here are 99% never hygienic. Wet floors and toilets not flushed. And in some cases, used pads on the floor.

This is not only the government's fault, is it? They made the washrooms, is it not our responsibility to keep them clean? Are we, as citizens, not obliged to our fellow citizens to do our basic duty of cleaning our mess in the public? To keep places hygienic enough for usage?

Another example is a very common one. One that we see twenty times everyday.

Spitting on the roads and walls.

Now, my dear men, we know you have all the artistic talent in the world, but the roads and walls do not need a shade of red on them. Let them be.

Spitting unites all of them. No matter where you are, what time of the day it is, what you're doing. You will see a man spit out tobacco, and you'll make a disgusted face and walk away.

This is not only the government's fault, is it? Keeping our cities clean is our responsibility just as much it is the government's. We can't blame only one side.

Then comes throwing trash on the roads and sidewalks. I've seen hundreds of packets and wrappers and papers and what not being thrown on the road as if the road is the trash can in question. There's trash on the ground beside the trash can even though it's empty.

As I said, it is our duty, too. To spread awareness, to make them realise that it is our responsibility too to keep the roads clean. To keep the washrooms clean. To keep our country clean.

India is our Mother. Would you mistreat your mother like this? Then why this one?

Also, a lot of times it is the government, but I'll write an something about that someday, too.

.

I can make you immortal,

but I can't make you reciprocate my love.

I can turn you into ink that never fades,

but I shall forever be hidden in the shades.

I can chant your name over and over,

but you'll always be another woman’s lover.

I can carve your name into my skin,

but I will always lose in love and never win.

I can give up my religion and worship you instead,

because I was starved of love and grief was what I was fed.

Maybe in another life,

I will be your beloved wife.

Or maybe the author

that is loved so much by your wife.

I had a dream: to be loved. Loving was my reality, and being loved a dream. Being someone's first choice, having my absence noticed, texting me first or calling me at a random time because they missed me.

That's the kind of love I give. And that's the kind of love I haven't yet received, and probably never will. I'm not being a pessimist; I believe in love. I just think it's not for me to be on the receiving end.

What can you expect from a girl who's never had more than two guys tell her that they have a crush on her in elementary school? Girls around me were drowning in “I really like you's” and I was just there, watching them squeal.

I think part of it was because I was taller than ninety-five percent of the boys in the school, seniors included. But how much of it can I blame it on a physical factor? Maybe it was just me. I was not the typical crush material. Not cutesy, not the It Girl, not too fat and not too skinny. Not blessed with an amazing sense of humor, but a few jokes here and there, not the best grades but slightly above average.

I was my English teacher's most hated student but was her biggest asset when it came to competitions and speaking and representing my class or the school.

Basically, I was the not too loud and not too quiet middle-bencher. Always.

And I hated it.

Living life in extremes was not good, but neither was living in the middle of it. You're not opaque not invisible, just the right amount of translucent that would go unnoticed if not given enough effort to look at. And no one really put in that effort.

Ambiverts, as you call it. Extroverted for the introverts, introverted for the extroverts. You get the gist.

Same was the case for me in love. I'm merely seventeen, but it feels like I've missed out a lot in the teenage love department. I never had a proper relationship while girls and guys around me were going on cute little dates. I? I was sitting at home in my oversized, worn out purple t-shirt and black shorts and watching YouTube or reading my favorite book for the tenth time.

Not a romantic Saturday night, is it? Quite the opposite.

My point is: I was always in the middle with no one to hold my hand and lead me to either ends of the road. So I just stay rooted on the spot, the black tar burning beneath my feet.

You can shout and yell,

but do it near me so I can hear it well.

I need to be closer to you,

even if you're agitated or burning with rage,

if you're the flame then I shall happily be the inked page.

Do yell; scathing, venomous, polished with hate.

But can you defy what was written for us by Fate?

You may throw all your anger at me

and I will search for fragments of love in it,

like a desperate child, starved of a mother.

Love, even the hint of it, shall soothe my hunger.

I will consume your anger,

and turn in into love. A love that shall linger

years after it has consumed me.

Your sweet and homely scent has turned into an ugly stench of disappointment.

I listen to you pray to God, asking Him—

“Why this child? I wanted a better one.”

Mother, you smile and you make dinner,

even though we both know your daughter is not a winner.

You take care of me, bring me water

but I know you wanted a better daughter.

Mother, I have outdone you.

Outdone you in despising the very idea of me.

I have outdone you in scarring my heart and my flesh. I have outdone you,

so now what shall I do?

With all this blood staining the floor,

I don't know how to clean this up.

Can I knock on your door?

Mother, your venomous voice echoes in the very heart you grew.

Mother, how could you?

I cannot even look into your eyes without my own burning with shame.

Mother, how can you silence the very voice you taught me to use.

Tell me, Mother, how can you kill the life you gave me yourself?

I sit with patience frozen in my bloodstream.

It has been years since the wait has encrusted itself into my bones,

how much longer till I stop envying others' homes?

You promised to come back, to return with your love for me still blooming in your heart.

You vowed to come hold my hand and kiss my forehead,

and now it is not your love but only the tears I shed

that fills this house. Seconds, minutes, hours or years,

I have lost count of all the tears

that I have shed. I let them stain my cheeks, let them mark your absence on my face.

Come back home to me, my Dear,

it has been an year. Or a hundred for that matter,

and I cannot now bear, this absence pounding in my ear.

Come back to me, even if with wounded skin or a broken bone,

and bring me love on your way back home.

I will hold your hand through every cry and laugh.

I was not made to love only a little,

I was made to love to the brim of the kettle.

I will pour all of myself into you,

even if you give me only a smile or two.

Partially hurts my heart,

so if my heart is to break into parts,

it will break whole apart, not half.

I love whole, to the core,

till you feel my love press on your bones.

Loving you will heal me by breaking me completely.