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A poem that explores the dark and narrow lanes with faint yellow lights in the corners. It's those lanes that mothers ask daughters to never head to.
A poem that explores the dark and narrow lanes with faint yellow lights in the corners. It’s those lanes that mothers ask daughters to never head to.
There’s a flickering yellow light, In the alley, by the corner, guarded by flies and insects constantly circling, basking in the warmth provided. You have only heard about the beauty of the city in the night, tonight, you experience it. You see it as you walk under the starry skies, studded to perfection. There’s a familiar beat resonating within your body, similar to all the nights you have walked alone. The predators never let your mother, or your sister, or your aunt, walk with their head held high past 8 pm. You walk, nevertheless, hearing parallel footsteps with each of those you take, hearing catcalls and whistles. The drumbeat that your heart is trying to resonate, has accelerated three fold. Out through the alley of the flickering lights, you see them coming. They wear bright sarees, exceptionally standing out as the studs that adorn the skies above you. Their lips stained with colours so dark, and hair adorned with jasmines. You see women your family despise, but tonight, you see corpses behind those extravagant colours. You recognise the street where love is auctioned for a ruppee or two, but tonight you see the desperate, rock hard determination of a mother earning for her child. A daughter, to feed her family. A wife, who is forced into the whole ordeal. You see them as they guide you towards your car, distracting the predators. They led you in, close the door and advice you to keep of these streets. You want to stay, listen to what their eyes say, but instead you pass a smile, as you drive off.
There’s a flickering yellow light, in the alley, by the corner. The corner where love is auctioned for a ruppee or two. The corner which smells like jasmine. The corner where they sell their bodies, in hopes of helping their helpless situations. The corner where shameless fingers roam 16 year old bodies. The corner, that unexpectedly became your guardian angel. The yellow light still flickers, and the night is still studded, as the universe receives another prayer, from this very alley.
Image source – Pixabay
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UP Boards Topper Prachi Nigam was trolled on social media for her facial hair; our obsession with appearance is harsh on young minds.
Prachi Nigam’s photo has been doing the rounds on social media for the right reasons. Well, scratch that- I wish the above statement were true. This 15-year-old girl should ideally be revelling in her spectacular achievement of scoring a whopping 98.05% and topping her tenth-grade boards. But oddly enough, along with her marks, it’s something else that garners more attention – her facial hair.
While the trolls are driving themselves giddy by mocking this girl who hasn’t even completed her school yet, the ones who are taking her side are going one step ahead – they are sharing her photoshopped pictures, sans the facial hair, looking nothing less than a celebrity with captions saying – “Prachi Nigam, ten years later”.
Doctors have already diagnosed her with PCOD in their comments, based on photographic evidence. While we have names for people shamed for their weight – body shaming, for their skin colour- racism, for their age- age shaming, for being a female- sexism, this category of shaming where one faces criticism for their appearance has no name. With that, it also has zero shame attached to it.
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