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The Dandelion

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The toast burns to  obsidian crumbs as the putrid smell starts to soar interrupting the meditation of my words that I routinely slit my heart to pour. Does it matter if I bleed or not They concluded I am not a writer yet The story of a thousand days and night Not a cent, a dime, a quarter it gets. Yes, I have miserably disappointed the masses But my failure, though, is yet to come For I continue to blow the dandelion Until I choose to be done. A 2nd-grade nipper stands alone a body deformed by torrential pain  the ground beneath has cracked wide open as he flails to breathe and walk again how to feel warm in the arctic of grief when loved ones float far, far away the mother who packed his lunchboxes the father who gave him sobriquets Yes, life has struck him hard indeed But mind you, his defeat is yet to come For he continues to blow the dandelion Until he chooses to be done.  Sifting through  anguish, anger, and despair She stares at the  heap of hands-me-down In the white and  elite

The Fish Head

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" Salmon is the closest I can feel you NOW. Especially when the ground mustard seeds release their pungent aroma wafting through the crisp-about-to-get-tender charcoal skin, in that Proustian moment, I see your polka dot maxi; I smell your Lux body soap, I hear your gold bangles clink, I flinch and turn to see if you are there, then I start to cry. "   Click on The Fish Head  to read the TOP BLOG AWARD winning story.  Image courtesy-Pixabay

Let's call her Mrs.Roy

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  In my mother's head, my 30 th birthday was some kind of Cinderella clock, but instead of my coach turning back into a pumpkin, it had her imagining that my youth and my eggs would soon shrivel up, wither away or die. She was thrown into disarray by a looming specter of "lonely singletons addicted to morphine and men for the lack of anything better: marriage. When it comes to a woman's life trajectory, my society, with its dogmatic paternalistic mentality, relies heavily on relics and risk aversion- something that I had bent every now and then. To read the full story, click on Let's call her Mrs.Roy Image courtesy-Pixabay

#Parenting The War Of Words

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Have we romanticized teenage angst? Have we sentimentalized teenage loss of identity? Have we glamorized teenage confusion? I ask because angst, confusion, and identity are part of my journey, maybe yours too, and maybe the seventy-five-year-old living in a technologically dominated and emotionally desiccated world. Many of us find a stable ground as we move into adulthood; however, for some of us, the cocktail of anger, confusion, and loneliness revisits us in waves and recedes and comes again and recedes again. It's just not you, dear teenagers. While listening to Billie Eilish's 'Lovely' and Olivia Rodrigo's 'Brutal,' I am compelled to pay attention to the word choices of the song that hegemonizes and controls my teenager's mind and soul. The conundrum- my experience with Psychology and Vedanta informs me- you are your mind- if my privileged teenager feels anything close to broken, hopeless, and disconsolate about her existence, then I, as her mothe

The Deathbed

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  " Whatever it was, one thing was common- everyone sought closure; everyone scrambled to say the until-now-unsaid, to clear the pathway of the life led. To Veda, it felt familiar. Her own mother had uprooted the toughest crab weed and flung it out of the window moments before her chain of breaths broke. Somehow, everyone wanted to travel light, without disappointments, guilt, or regrets. Somehow, everyone had the most sincere things to share in their final moments; somehow, they chose to be unfortified; the years of guardrails, they let it collapse, and the candor and vulnerability awed Veda. It felt like a moral imperative to neither delay nor deny what must be said and then close the gates. " To read the story, please click on  The Deathbed . This story was recognized as the  #BlogOfTheDay on Momspresso.  Image courtesy-Pixabay

Who Owns My Name? Who Owns My Identity?

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Usually, there would be three people in the office that early- the office boy, the janitor, and an account assistant. Today I saw him too, and he offered to make coffee for me. He looked crisp as a toast that morning in a pearl-white shirt and charcoal trousers, a tie, hair- a mottled mixture of black, grey, and white, and eyes that that had a sparkle of a thousand splendid suns. don’t know why, but my heart skipped a beat at the thought of seeing him again, and the next day, and the day after. Two months later we were furtively writing emails to each other- in the office. Emails about my words, my thoughts, free verses vs rhyming poems, and ME. I HAD NEVER FELT SO VISIBLE. I would stay back after office hours just to be with him and savor his presence; he made affection feel simple and it felt nice to receive it. Though his family wasn’t there, they weren’t entirely absent either. We ate tofu burgers at the food court of DLF square sharing stories of our lives: me talking about my i

Dear Victoria- We have an uphill battle

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'My besties gifted me The Forever Robe in sheer black lace and tulle, with feminine ruffles, airy balloon sleeves, and pretty ribbon details. This works like magic; they chirped. The only difference, at 45, magic is neither desired nor required. With stretch marks covering my entire abdomen and varicose veins on my calf and inner thighs, the robe is no panacea for my body with blemishes. So here I am, coaxed to celebrate my 20th anniversary in a so-called exciting way. What's special about it? Nothing. There is nothing special about either 20 or 25. Trends dictate our life, and many of us find ourselves trapped by the dictum's that don't suit us, yet we succumb to it under fancy hashtags of -milestones, celebrating togetherness, YOLO, etc. Keeping the secret gift back in the cupboard, I pack my usual white and beige set for the trip. I have nothing against my husband and his preference; I have something going on with myself. I want to be comfortable in the choices I am