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It’s a trap. What now? What beyond it?This abyss. There lies, their lies-utterly undetectable, perfectly undecipherable.
It’s a trap. What now? What beyond it? This abyss. There lies, their lies-utterly undetectable, perfectly undecipherable.
What are these multitudes?
Trying to boggle me down, gobble me up….
All these voices, surrounding me –
like echoes from a far-away land,
like fireflies floating inside the heart –
buzzing, beaming, full of frivolous energy.
And they unsettle. The edges of quietude.
Isn’t it supposed to make one feel –
But somehow, it almost doesn’t. Lead –
Home – what is that anyhow?
A space – for self, for safety,
Or just a place – where you return,
because there’s nowhere else to go?
Whatever it is, chaos is it?
Or a zone with –
white noises floating freely
Serving some weird purpose –
like mere creation – of voices, noises.
Where does it leave one then?
What does it do? What purpose?
To unsettle, control, rephrase-
Even when it shouldn’t.
But yet, it does-
in the name of norms-
to justify it all-
the mess, the decisions, the arbitrariness.
It pushes, shoves, threatens-
attempting to overthrow-
over the edges-of sanity.
reshaping, molding understandings,
overpowering- the right noises.
It’s a trap. What now? What beyond it?
This abyss. There lies, their lies-
utterly undetectable, perfectly undecipherable.
And amidst it all, screaming for the guts to speak –
wanting to be heard, beyond voices,
there is – shrill, noisy silence.
Can you hear it?
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Women making compromises for the sake of their families is real; I have seen, heard and read about them. My family has been my biggest cheerleaders!
‘I suppose you will work after marriage?’ My (then) prospective mother-in-law asked a few minutes after we had met.
I was in the penultimate semester of my two-year MBA at IIM Indore. Amid lectures, libraries, badminton, extracurriculars, and placements, I somehow managed to discover my future life partner there. His parents had arrived in Indore from Lucknow to meet his choice and deliberate about blessing the marriage.
‘Yes, of course,’ I replied without blinking, trying to gauge her reaction.
She was sure she was dying of cancer the first time her periods came. Why did her mother not explain anything? Why did no one say anything?
Sneha still remembers the time when she had her first period.
She was returning home from school in a cycle-rickshaw in which four girls used to commute to school. When she found something sticky on the place where she was sitting, she wanted to hide it, but she would be the first girl to get down and others were bound to notice it. She was a nervous wreck.
As expected, everyone had a hearty laugh seeing her condition. She wondered what the rickshaw-wallah thought of her. Running towards her home, she told her mother about it. And then, she saw. There was blood all over. Was she suffering from some sickness? Cancer? Her maternal uncle had died of blood cancer!
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