Desert Rose

“Oh I thought you were a feminist. Aren’t you? “ – One comment I encounter very often. Like even yesterday. So am I? Being a woman is a privilege I was born with and it is an identity I cherish more than any other. It is something that has shaped my emotional response and sensitivity for as long as I have known.  Like most women, I too am strengthened by my experiences and it is the truth when they say “a woman is like a reed, she bends to every breeze but she does not break in a storm.” ‘Woman’ is the far deeper, wider and greater word. Does it even fit to qualify a more limited term like ‘Feminist’?  Not in my opinion. Being labelled a feminist would misrepresent who I really am. I know that some dictionaries define feminism simply as ‘equality’. But I do not want to be part of a movement where too many of their actions do not match this definition. I know that not all feminists are man-haters, don’t care about men’s rights, or believe in female s...

I thought your heart leaked love;  when did venom turn out to be so intoxicating. So extremely alluring;  yet unexplainably excruciating. It was in your lips; soft yet evil, conquering my soul. It was in your touch; hidden beautifully in that romance. Like a beautiful thing it came; Then a sense of falling and an eventual cease. I am free now.

If you must act like an impertinent man ;  Just because my clear sky  now looks grey ; And thunderstorms y ou cannot bear the sound of ; Please continue. Only remember that even today, I'd say cheers with you knowing my mug has poison. I would gladly drink it   for old times’ sake .

The same reasons. The same arguments.  Raised voices and then Sighs.  He leaves the room. She stayed where she was for a few minutes, and then took a deep breath and wade into their bedroom. When she got into bed, he turns to her and wraps his arms around and buries his face in her neck, and at the same time they both say, “I love you.” In his arms, she slept. Sound sleep.

A year apart they were born. In the same neighborhood they belonged. Being the first to both parents, they were pampered and kept the apple of their eyes. Without a reason, some universal force made them first friends and first sisters to each other. They took their first steps, spoke their first words and sang their first rhymes almost around the same time. The parents and their little girls. Their bright red peddle - cycles with the rabbit face. The Barbie dolls. The alphabet shaped fridge magnets. It was colorful. There were smiles. Only smiles. They prayed to different Gods; Hailed from different towns. But they were girls who learnt to crawl together.  No history, no religion, no society or no ethnicity was going to change that.  Never mind any of it. Years rolled by. But not too many though. The innocence and tenderness was still very much the image the little girls portrayed.  Yet the colorful times happened to be...