Four Clover Life- By Namrata Shailendra Singh

I was 24, and he was 53. I wanted him to hug me and perhaps love me- a love that could be an emollient to an aching heart and a disgruntled soul. I was sick of being unloved for long.  A 6'x6' cubicle of a sales office on the 20th floor of the DLF building in Gurgaon is hardly a place for a 'relationship', and I was looking for someone, anyone, to stitch my heart. The wound I got at 16 had maggots growing on them, and heartbreak at 23 was the last straw on the camel's back. It broke me into innumerable pieces, and I didn’t care which piece fell where.  It refused to heal. My world had become small, lonely, and apocalyptic.    It was just another cold, foggy morning in Delhi, and I was in a rush to get coffee from the vending machine- a ritual I followed every morning, stepping into the white LED-lit office with ash grey carpet that looked more crummy after a morning vacuum, and cobalt blue swivel chairs reeking of stale perfume. Every day, every interaction, e...

Do men still gift condoms to the groom before his wedding? Do you still hold your arms down just because you missed your underarms session? Do would-be brides still get a full body wax before their wedding? Do friends and co-sisters still engage in raillery and repartee about the golden night? Does Victoria's secret remain a bride's( also the groom's) treasure safely tucked in her suitcase when flying for honeymoon?  Unbeknownst, well, two days ago, 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? Noth...

  As an Indian American mom, I struggle to teach my daughter the right values, and my parenting has sometimes been questioned. But motherhood in America changed it all…so much so that I am surprised at the cosmic shift that can happen in life when a baby pops out of the womb. As if all the alcohol inside the body dried up, the hormones vaporized in thin air, and all the morality, values, and traditions of India have one door to knock on – MINE. Thanks to the population of the Indian community here, I have fodder for my eyes and ears, to reinforce how we must preserve the Indian-ness in us, in our children; otherwise ‘times are bad’ and ‘anything can happen, you see’. Phew! To read the article, click on The Indian American Mom Image courtesy-Pixabay

                    “Punarapi jananam punarapi maranam, Punarapi janani jatare sayanam, Iha samsaare khalu dusthare, Krupayaa pare pahi murare.” These words transmogrified my life. But why did it take so long? From the detritus of life, can one resurrect a castle?  The words spoken twenty years before hung like spider webs, the orb weaver’s, shiny and decorative from outside; however, can one forget it was a trap…after all.   The oxygen cylinder shows 20 minutes of supply left. It is futile hustling for another breath; I don't want one. Twenty minutes is enough time to write one apology to her in the hope that she forgives and my soul can depart sans the virus that afflicted me years back.  For as long as I remember, I have been dissatisfied with wherever I was, whatever I was doing, and whomever I was with, and that is pretty much the obituary of my life. Too bad? It is what it is. I changed lipsticks and accessories...

Some months are polka dots; other months, it is spotlessly clean. Regardless, I wear a sanitary pad, just in case...one more time. Men love beautiful women. Men love fully rounded breasts, smooth, soft, and squishy, similar to a stress ball, and a voluptuous rear. I have them all. Or at least I used to. Lately, I have a lot running on my mind: The President’s inauguration, Los Angeles weather, my teenage daughter’s SAT exams, my husband, a podiatrist, and new fixation with The Gita classes at Laguna Isckon temple. Most importantly, my soaked blouses and my spotless months have induced a feeling I can with some surety call-RAGE-sweat commingled with a sense of rage that I have recently acquired at 48. As an OB-GYN, my hands are always full. Twenty years of experience both in England and the United States does not go in vain. What I enjoy the most is the administration of Botox, cosmetic fillers, and laser procedures for photorejuvenation, acne treatment, scar removal, and varicose ve...

"Maana, would you please listen to me? I am not insane to keep hunting for things to keep you safe. Do you think I am doing this for myself? Have you forgotten…?"   "No, Maa. I haven't forgotten her, but you need to understand that I cannot, and I refuse to live in this huge fear."   "Fear? We are talking reality Maana," Naina followed her daughter to the kitchen with a pepper spray bottle in her hand.   "Reality? Really?" Maana rushed to her room to get her satchel. Pouring the contents on the glass dining table, Maana roared with anger, "This is my reality, Maa? This? More than books, I have weapons in my bag." A 30-inch foldable iron rod fell from the table on the floor with a clank. A steel baton, a small knife, a big knife, a razor, and a stun gun lay on the table while the pages of H.C.Verma's Concepts of Physics fluttered.   "And this, the brass knuckle which I wear like an ornament whenever I am outs...