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Building a home despite challenges and creating new life is such a beautiful thing, something that the poet shares with us.
In the old lanes of Bareilly
Lies a story
Not inside any book, not of a human
Neither any tale of dev-or-devi
The story takes me back
To my home
With big black iron gates
And an aagan with a gudhal tree
O yes! I remember it all
On a sultry summer noon
He came with a twig in his beak
Hopped around a bit
And placed it on the kitchen vent very carefully
Soon came she
Flapping her tiny wings around
Scrutinizing the verandah
Yes! we were about to have an extension in our family
I stood there
I watched them
Hiding behind the brown curtain
Thinking, “are they going to live here?”
The two architects were at work now
Raising an abode out of dried shoots,
Some broken roots, feathers and string
Even putting papers for lining
She used to sit in her nest
He used to bring her some bread
An excitement filling the air
And their chirping became a routine
Then came the month of June
Thirsty earth tasted the fresh monsoon
But that night looked dangerous
As the boon showers turned thunderous
In that storm
I heard her a few times
My heart gasped
Were the two love-birds fine?
The next dawn was quite
Deprived of the song of the very first light
Still cocooned in my bed, I waited and pleaded
O please! cheer me with your chirr-up
The moments seemed to have stopped
As the time moved only inside the clock
And then a fine call broke the silence
Filling the moment with love, hope and innocence
The vigor of new souls
Took away the listlessness of earth
The next few days in my home
Were full of jollity and verve
In the old lanes of my city
On that roaring night
Life planted itself
On that kitchen vent of that pastel blue kothi
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I recommend reading Manjiri Indurkar's Origami Aai alongside her memoir to have a fulfilling and enriching experience of telling one's story with grace.
It’s All In Your Head, M famed author Manjiri Indurkar’s debut poetry collection, Origami Aai, is independent and yet an extension of her memoir in which she speaks with utmost grace about all forms of abuses that she has survived. In this book of intriguing and evocative poems, the poet weaves words to form images of the everyday life of her middle-class family, love found and lost, trauma, and healing.
The collection is divided into four segments, beginning with the family, slowly moving towards the world, and finally colliding them together.
We aren’t in mourning, but we are creatures of habit.
So we talk of each one who died of drowning,
and I listen to her stories with the patience
of a chronicler.
– Funereal Stories
When someone accuses you of "too much feminism", what they are really saying is, "I am uncomfortable with you challenging the status quo and disrupting my privilege".
Time and again, there is one phrase that keeps coming up in the social media discourse on feminism. Any guesses?
Ah, no prizes for guessing the infamous “itni bhi feminist” or “too much feminism” phrase, a classic eye-roller for me, and I am sure for many more of my tribe, in the realm of gender equality discussions.
Pray tell me, how can an ideology, a movement be too ‘much’? It’s not salt or the seasoning of your soup where you can go, “Oops, too much salt, only one spoon was required”. Either you stand for what feminism stands for, or you don’t.
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