Gender, Sex and Sexuality – Might be used interchangeably,
But these are three different things.
Gender is what you define.
Sex is biologically defined.
Sexuality is what you’ve no right to define!!!
Stop this discretion in the name of Gender,Sex,Sexuality,Caste, Nationality – Because Humanity is what we have in common!
How can you differentiate between Homosexuals from Me and You?
How can you put them under a genre called, FICTION when they aren’t different from Me and You?
NO – Their walk doesn’t make them Lesbian.
No – Their talk doesn’t make them Gay.
They walk the same walk,
They talk the same talk.
No, they don’t dress up in Rainbow colour – For you need a sign of warning.
Stop setting norms, Stop defining them.
Stop telling them it’s just a phase.
Stop asking, who among them is a Butch and who a femme.
Stop looking at them with an Aww of section 377.
Stop telling that you’re sorry for they have to live inside the dark rooms – Away from Me and You.
Instead light the world for them – Not in the name of Hashtags but in the name of Humanity.
Because..They are no different.
The fog outside
the cold nights
the shivers – Warned about the year end.
I pretend to love the cold
It’s been twenty two years since I’m on this battleground,
Fighting with the winds, destroying the soul
filling it with despair.
With tears I see around
I couldn’t hold back,
As I also cried,
Was it the fear?
Was it the joy?
Know not I.
While you sit across the window,
following the routine
Sipping the coffee,
I wish it doesn’t remind you of the bitter and cold state he left you in.
It might make you weep
But you’ll never stop and make yourself witness the same cold you did.
Perhaps now it’s never too late for the sun to shine,
And always early for it to set.
Stopping the teary and joyous moment,
I play ‘connect-the-dots’ with freckles moving ahead
To welcome the new beginning,
Living in grey and adding a bit colour to it –
Little by little.
There are people who’ll walk over your face to tell you how good you’re at everything you do,
then there are people who would walk down miles to criticise you –
It’s just what they learnt back home.
This needed to be long gone,
She felt another friend hitting her
With bullets of words
Which surely did not shed any tears but made her loose trust in humanity,Even more.
She spent days in bed debilitated by loss,
She made attempts to cry
but the eyes shined like ice.
The friend told her to stop eating,
She would pinch her belly till it bleeds.
She lost the count of days,
Became a ghost
With dozen different thoughts
that would tear her apart each day,
Not just once but innumerable times.
She then met a woman,
Who would call her an inspiration
and how she wanted to have a cup of coffee
discussing about the artists whose identity faded.
Talk about men who had novels in their name.
Talk about Mary Ann Evans,
And how they’re criticised.
Is this what we call art?
Is this how this community is?
Let’s not the heart turn as cold as the weather,
let’s enjoy art.
I was still close to it, even when you were two months old. I could still go back and hold onto things even when they hurt. They would call our connection strong,and I would believe them. I would belive them when they tell me how strong I was.
When you grew 8 months old. The heart began to beat at a pace which wasn’t the same, it started beating faster. Our connection seem to grow even stronger, I would still come back to you no matter how it would hurt. Again.
When you’re a year old, the heart was in race with itself. It started beating faster and faster, for it was waiting for those endless stairs to end. There was a fight between you and strength, which would continue for days and days with the aim of defeating the other.
You,are three now. Having lost the sight of what the other end looks like, I still yearn to live on the side which hurts but having lost all the strength – I yearn to takeoff just as a plane with a technical issue does.The stairs I’m climbing seems to have no end.
I envy people who stand on a point where they’ve attained contentment, their inner peace – The strength within.
Stories seem to pour harder than the cloudburst outside, we got plenty of time to kill it – But it isn’t dissolving.
Today, as I flip through the pages of an old photo albums they tell me the image I reflect in the mirror is no one but Me.But why do I fail to recognise myself?
A bottle filled up with a message waiting to say it out – Loud enough,
for you to hear.
Until I gather the courage,
I request you to take a little longer to come back,
I wake up, look around and wonder what’s wrong,
Move around a little,
And collect some decor to pretty my house!
Then, I look at me and wonder what went wrong?
Every night I scrub a mask, layer it with apologies of Acceptance.
I look straight into the sparkling eyes of the frail girl – I see in the Mirror.
Shine to me like that Meteor – I tell myself.
Let’s put up that White Dress-
Fits through my bust, Long enough to cover my thigh.
Turn a little right, a little left,
Turn a little more – Until you accept the light your sparkle.
Do you see yourself shining like a meteor in the daylight without a mask or a highlighter?
Now that’s Acceptance!
(Published with Fashion Herald)
At an age of 5,
She was taught to smile pretty,
Play it safe.
Words came to her like a bullet,
She had no choice other than to rot,
That’s what was being taught!
‘Perfection’ seemed to have different meanings,
For Women it were Inches,
For Men it were the qualities they possessed.
The Scars, the Skin,
The Inches, the Derm,
Even rains couldn’t wash the Black alluvial soil off the Skin,
Leaving her unfit for the world,
Left behind like those unfortunate droplets against the windowpanes, which cannot be a part of something B I G.
Just to deeper the scars were the words of the society.
Each morning, as a I crawl out of my bed,
I wash Yesterday out of my Hair –
“I’m an art,
With my own perfections and imperfections.”