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Poem: Disguised Motherhood. A young poet writes about the grief of losing her mother. She remembers how her mother's life was when poet was a child.
I stepped into a graveyard of a woman last night, The woman who once picked out lice from my scalp on every Thursday’s for she knew that was the most opulence service her child would be able to afford.
The woman who was alone in the same frame for her drunk husband who touches other woman more than her. The woman who left her permanent footprints within a temporary world over her gravestone, her daughter’s heart. Is not any more.
I remember. As a little child how I used to bite down the dust and chewed the threads of the torn dupatta of her silenced moans and snivelled screams.
And I withered roses in their crypts screeched out to the celibate women, who danced in circles until the shadow of the gloomy- old trees fell upon their gowns.
I do not understand how I am supposed to write about love when my mother didn’t receive any? Do mothers have a place where they can scream? Who was remembered for her existence for nothing but the kitchen tea.
For the living room to be eyed and bathrooms to be clean of every house member. My mother, who always tells me how I must never stray away from her in crowds for she has already suffered consequences of strangers. Is not any more.
I paint my mother better in my pieces than I wish her to be. But then again, are my wishes any saner than a drunkard’s greedy moustache which drinks more beer than what reaches his mouth? Even when I did kill the bird who sang me to sleep, you wouldn’t paint me as a villain, for I would still be a bipolar for you.
I step down the cemetery Of my mother who abandoned heels to not look taller than my father, who was one-fourth the woman she could be and three-fourths the woman she had to be.
While I excavated years of generational expectations from in-between her vertebrae, a frail framework of brittle bones and tattered tissues.
Image Source: Still from Fame Game on Netflix via Canva Pro
Amateur Poet // Student read more...
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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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