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When a woman is loved only for the kohl of her eyes and the voluptuousness of her hips, is she really being loved for her true self?
I remember how you looked at me that day my hair swaying gracefully dancing to the tunes of my heart treading on what is to be hidden flattering their perfect roundness The song of youth playing silently on my lips trying hard to be understood And the kohl of my eyes waiting to be smeared I know you wanted all of me I saw a compound of love and lust, and praised myself for what I never worked hard to be those eyes, those breasts, those hips that came as genetically as the grey of my eyes just like my grandmother’s grandmother had had I see you again to find your eyes fixated on me I am happy that I am good enough to catch your eye when there must be hundreds like me and millions much better I thank God for being wanted for being desired, for being lusted after And I see a picture again of my grandmother, smiling the adoring gaze of my grandfather grey hair, wrinkled skin blurry vision And look back at you I try to tell myself, I have wanted you more than you ever wanted me that I was just telling myself how lucky a woman I am and then the realization dawns you love something that is just a fraction of my entity a shameful representation of what I am truly capable of being A sad smile plays on my lips You look surprised and probably think that women are never meant to be understood properly But I know now why we were never meant to be.
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IT professional. Honored as State-level child scientist(2006). Winner Global Essay Writing contest: TCS-IRC Loves to read, write, sing, dance and act. 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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