Four Clover Life- By Namrata Shailendra Singh

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

We had 200 miles of straight road ahead. With rain falling straight on our car like drums overhead and cymbals on the windshield mirror with the wipers gyrating tirelessly, the traffic moving straight in three rows, and the heart going roller coaster, I dismissed the question saying their owners will come and take care of them. It is difficult to handle two disquieted hearts. To read the award-winning story, click on The Cow . Image courtesy-Pixabay

Our society places beauty that high. When you fall, it fractures you from within. But I choose not to fear anymore. I want to be proud of myself. I am willing to let go of what I should be to who I am. Until I die, I want to continue to be list further possibilities and not a defined label. And that is being FEARLESS. Labels with their ingredient and the calorie count are good with a hamburger, not with human beings.  To read the full story click on Bold and Beautiful Image courtesy-Pixabay

Are you insane? Do you see the future of the country in me? How did you forget my boundaries passed on to me as a decree I am no pilot in the armed forces, no judge of the supreme court No officer in the Indian army, holding no responsible fort I am not your Durga or your Kaali, neither am I your Parvati I am not your Ganga or your Tulsi, nor I am your Saraswati To read the poem, click on A pair of boobs and a vagina.  This poem was penned just after Priyanka Reddy's bone-chilling brutal rape and murder. You can click on the link to read more about the story- Priyanka Reddy . The words erupted from within and spread on paper like lava. Our girls don't deserve this. We don't deserve this. 88 rape cases in a day- that's how grim the statistics are- India Today . Image courtesy-Pixabay

Being a hoi-polloi, I find joy easily, and fear seeps easily too. I laugh easily, and I tremble easily. I thought COVID was a Wuhan thing and continued with life until it came knocking on my door, and I was horrified. I tried hard to dismiss it and pretend it cannot be my door. The knocking was relentless; it grew louder and louder, much to my chagrin. I chose not to open the door. Right then, it barged in, breaking the bolts, and I stood there feeling tiny and defenseless. Why did it come to me? How did it come to me? From where? Why? Who? all I had were questions and a tsunami of answers from all possible communication channels, each posted 'to share information, each doing just the reverse' create more fear.' So, I did what the rest of the aam aadmi does- RUN. To read the article, click on Hey Corona Image courtesy-Pixabay

  “And how do I know that?” “You will always know it, Naina. I am your conscience. You can never stop me. If your actions bring peace, you know what you are fighting for is worth the cause; if not, you know you are betting on the wrong horse.” The noise in her head grew louder like the whirlwind beats of a dhol. Naina stood in a stupor, her eyes transfixed on the Mangal sutra hanging from her mother’s slender neck. She stood coyly next to the man with whom she shared 38 years of life. Clad in a red banarasi sari, red vermillion along the part of her hair shining bright against her bronze skin, she looked most imperfect standing diminutively next to Naina’s father – fair-skinned, tall with an Englishman’s look in a single-breasted plaid suit. To read the full story, click on  The Unbecoming . Women's Web with Anuja Chauhan(who has worked in advertising for over seventeen years and is credited with many popular campaigns. She is the author of five bestselling novels (The Zoya Factor