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Sometimes, the simplest lines carry the most depth. Here is a beautiful poem about the lessons time teaches us.
Then
I bruised my forehead
Rushed to the hospital
For stitches that stung
So terrible, I cried
I was seven.
Now
I shrieked, as it hurt
And didn’t seem to cease
In agony I lay
More than a day
To push a human out
I was thirty one.
I fell ill
Missed an exam
Sobbed at having lost
My chance to a glorious future
That, on my mind I had etched
I was fifteen.
I worked
Behind a desk
Waiting for the two days,
I could forget what I did
Often doubtful,
But still hoped
It will all mean something,
One day
I was twenty five.
When my throat got a knot,
A teddy bear swallowed my tears
He said he’d die for me
I believed
He’s lying to you, said Dad
I left him
And grieved for months
I was eighteen.
We stay up all night
Tacitly taking turns
To hold the little one
When he whimpers
And can’t say
Where it hurts,
And how much
I am thirty three.
Dad was strong
Mom stood upright
Together they fought the world
To shelter me,
Under their wings
I sulked to break free
I was a child.
They are wearied
In empty nest,
Anticipate my visit
Rubbing their eyes,
Under metal rimmed glasses
I long to return home
I am a worrying Mom, myself.
Pain was something else
Like the world was going to end
Like it will never get better
Like it can never get any worse
Pain is different
Like it is here to stay
As a constant companion
Like however big,
It will always be smaller
Than me.
Pic credit: Camera Eye Photography (Used under a CC license)
Originally published at the author’s blog.
Shivangi is the author of the hilarious yet compelling book 'I made a booboo', published by Rupa and available worldwide. She also co-authored a travel anthology on Netherlands, titled 'Dutched up' that featured among read more...
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Neena was the sole caregiver of Amma and though one would think that Amma was dependent on her, Neena felt otherwise.
Neena inhaled the aroma that emanated from the pan and took a deep breath. The aroma of cumin interspersed with butter transported her back to the modest kitchen in her native village. She could picture her father standing in the kitchen wearing his white crisp kurta as he made delectable concoctions for his only daughter.
Neena grew up in a home where both her parents worked together in tandem to keep the house up and running. She had a blissful childhood in her modest two-room house. The house was small but every nook and cranny gave her memories of a lifetime. Neena’s young heart imagined that her life would follow the same cheerful course. But how wrong she was!
When she was sixteen, the catastrophic clutches of destiny snatched away her parents. They passed away in a road accident and Neena was devastated. Relatives thronged her now gloomy house and soon it was decided that she should be married off.
Being a writer, Nivedita Louis recognises the struggles of a first-time woman writer and helps many articulate their voice with development, content edits as a publisher.
“I usually write during night”, says author Nivedita Louis during our conversation. Chuckling she continues,” It’s easier then to focus solely on writing. Nivedita Louis is a writer, with varied interests and one of the founders of Her Stories, a feminist publishing house, based in Chennai.
In a candid conversation she shared her journey from small-town Tamil Nadu to becoming a history buff, an award-winning author and now a publisher.
Nivedita was born and raised in a small town in Tamil Nadu. It was for schooling that she first arrived in Chennai. Then known as Madras, she recalls being awed by the city. Her love-story with the city, its people and thus began which continues till date. She credits her perseverance and passion to make a difference to her days as a vocational student among the elite sections of Madras.
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