The Deranged Thoughts Of A Girl

The girl cried into the night, Sounds of her sorrows reverberating, And crashing onto the neighbour's roofs. "What is it, my dear? Why are you wailing?", the neighbours hurried towards the child. "My pa came home today and slapped my ma.", she said amidst sobs. "Oh dear. These men! Their hands are conditioned  To smack women so often, The women in the house flinch like reflex on touch, And hide in the dark to escape their wrath. Oh you poor child.", they held their chin in their palms, to hold the sorrow of the child and the misfortune of her ma. The next day she cried again  And the neighbours hurried to her doorstep, The misfortune of her ma being Mumbled under their breath. "My pa is bleeding. Amma hit him without reason. Please help my pa!"she begged for their help. The neighbours peered with contempt "What a spineless man!", they laughed and they left, The echoes of their laughter settling down, Weighing down like anchors of st

The cafe was bustling with customers on a Sunday. I ordered a milkshake and gazed at how beautifully the day gave way for the night to arrive. When the milkshake was delivered to my table after a whole twenty minutes, I took a nice long sip and was devouring the happiness when I could sense the shift of change in the atmosphere. A customer had entered and suddenly the air was sucked out of its components and replaced with confusion and unwarranted hate. A transwoman. She was different, said every nudge, every whisper, and every stare. She was different, as we all are and as we all take pride in. But she was really different, they reminded her. I wondered whether people really embraced the ideology that we are all different from each other.  She sat across from me. Suddenly I felt a huge rush of emotions and thoughts playing inside me. Was I scared of how people would react? Was I worried about how she'd feel ? Was I anxious about what I wouldn't be able to do? I glanced at her

Once upon a time, there was a woman who was a little crazy in her head. Or so they said. Wait, this is how you begin stories that people listen to,right? Okay, let's continue. She found a liking to my mother because my mother was a gem when it came to conversations. She usually exhausted her evenings by talking to the old men who exchanged words only to buy more time to stare at her breasts. But since she found a liking to my mother, she'd wait around and accompany her in her evening walks. There's someone who's excited to meet you, my mother would say and I would be excited too.  One day, I finally met her. She is the type of person you'd find a immediate liking to. She talked with so much love and joy in her eyes. She was also funny, well funny in a way that might scare the society. Let me explain. While we were walking,this middle-aged man passed us by and said to my mother "Oh! You have got the best walking companion.",looked over to the woman and said

We all think about tragedies. It doesn't necessarily have to happen to us, it could be anyone's. Maybe it is an underlying feeling in ourselves borne out of sympathy. No, is it empathy? The way we dwell in the sorrow of others like we have none of our own makes me want to believe in the world. Even if it would be a sad one.  When I see someone in pain, I hope that this isn't the first time tragedy has struck them. I hope it is the fourth or fifth or second time because by then you'll slowly learn how to cope with it. And the fact that we have to is saddening by itself but aren't we all done trying asking for things to be better? Aren't we all tired of kneeling and praying in front of everyone and everything that makes us want to believe in hope again? Aren't we all tired of making closed rooms, taps running and walls our solace? Aren't you?  But the first time. The first time strikes as loud as the clock strikes twelve at night, a feeling of unknown impe

Why does everything have to be so poetic? I ask myself all day long  Only to find myself succumbed amid Words, poems, people and minute things, Glamourising every inch of the letter, rhyme, Body and feelings. Why does everything have to be so poetic? I ask myself when I come across  romanticization of emotions by famous poets and writers, Does a person make you feel like that? Do I have to feel like that to know it's love?  Because the last time I knew I was in love, I was just happy, you know. Why does everything have to be so poetic? I ask myself as I listen to songs about heartbreak. Should I ache with every bit of my soul  And immerse myself in tunes of sorrow and remorse? Should I rock myself to sleep with every scenario playing in my head? Because the last time I felt heartbreak, I felt so very sad looking at them, you know. Why does everything have to be so poetic? I ask myself as I watch the rain without a care in the world. My mind so empty and full of thoughts That I star

How do you tell someone that they mean a lot to you because a few words stringed together would never do justice to how they make you feel. How someone feels like a beautiful clear day you'd watch after a stormy night, both of them magnificent on their own but we wouldn't appreciate one if the other weren't present. How someone feels like the hands that guide the paper boats in rainy season, while all the others watched theirs sink. How someone feels like the type of person you have always wanted to meet but never knew until you started talking to them. Someone that carried the burdens of her life on her shoulders yet laughed so brightly that your heart eases just a little knowing that she's here. She saw the world for its cruelty and kindness. She saw everyone for their insecurities and strengths. But she was kind about it, undeniably. And I saw her. She is the humblest person I have ever known. She'd take me out on walks and share the most complicated parts of her

When you have loved and lost, you never look at love the same way again. When you have hurt someone, you never look at love the same way again. When you apologize and fix things, you realise you will never look at love the same way again.  I have walked past people thinking about why someone did what they did and sigh loudly. I have smiled to myself in all places I feel oblivious to thinking about the scenarios I make up in my mind. How a bright red bag catches my eye and I immediately think about painters who are lovers who smear red paint over his lover's breast as he kisses her lush lips. How the sky so strangely orange one day reminds me about a friend and I imagine a conversation I would have with her. How a racing motorbike reminds me  about the incident that almost killed me and how when death looked me in the eye, I shifted from the thought of sheer terror to relief in seconds. 'I was so young, I shouldn't have thought like that' makes me panic and I quickly fin

People never know how to fill the pages of their diary, or how to love someone without hurting them eventually, or how to tell someone that they have found solace in them. But people try. They try to copy the pages of someone's diary, try to amend mistakes, try to look a person in the eye and voice words that are so real that they become the embodiment of happiness. And people fail. They fail to find themselves in what they wrote, they hurt them over and over again, they practise saying things that never touch the intensity of what they want to convey. But people try again.  I have written in so many diaries. But I have completed none. I have tried writing everyday but then realised my life was uneventful. I then tried writing on days when something eventful happened or I was being dramatic but I believed that every moment is worth living for. And then it became a cycle. But eventually along the way, I found myself in those pages. I still remember the day I read through my old diar

A bell in the back of my mind, It keeps counts, one, two, three, The numbers are lost on me now Stitching itself onto my skin,my eyes my conscience, my love. The closet I finally opened has locked me from inside In a bigger, vulnerable, scarier closet. I have nightmares of how people look at me, like A person that doesn't deserve to love Or to be loved. All because of the gender I chose. Four, five, six, I live in a bed of lies, the pillows Have collected the truths I cry about, My sexuality is hidden under the carpet Of understanding It screams everytime someone knocks on the door Only to be muffled by fibres of insecurity And lack of reassurance. Seven, eight, nine I could see the change in people's eyes When I finally walked out They never looked at me the same. My heart pushed me forward Telling me I deserve everything I deserve to experience as much as the next person My life was in shackles but my heart was free And little by little, it help

Art by Owen Gent The scorching heat of the afternoon was unbearable, clothes melting into the skin, bodies becoming a salty sea, and minds wandering around frenzied. Estha, Rahel and Sophie mol looks like they are having the times of their lives, running around in the sun, playing in the boat. The sound of their laughter pierces through the walls of the old house, holding it together. Holding the image I have of my home together, a house that creaks with my past, drunk odours, the sounds of fathers slapping mothers and of sons slapping fathers. Their laughter feels like a small version of me picking up all the scattered pieces of the image with bleeding hands telling me 'one day, this will be home.' ..... I slowly undress myself, removing each piece of clothing and savouring the restricted air touching me. I step inside. As the water slowly makes its way, touching every part of my body I remember Velutha. I rest my head against the wall and wish it was his shoulder, the one whe

To the ones that dance, Imagine yourself in a room that has beautiful windows, they are open and the curtains are swaying so elegantly, a dance of love with the wind, one would assume. Suddenly the room fills with a soft music, you are confused and surprised. It's a slow song, and the next thing you know you are dancing. At a point, you close your eyes. Now you can see the blinding lights and thousands and thousands of people are watching you. You freeze you become anxious and nervous. You can hear their confusion too. You start running, but the stage seems to move around in circles. So you stop, you are helpless. You close your eyes and remember. Remember the time when you danced around naked in the shower and felt like the sexiest being on earth. Remember the time when you had a disco party inside your head when others played sad songs and stared out of the window and how you couldn't stop thinking if they were swirling around too inside their head. Remember the time when you

 I have always hated endings. Be it a sad movie, a car ride, a lunch date, a conversation, the mere inevitability that all things come to an end. Be it good or bad. The bolt of relief for the latter immediately being replaced by ingratitude.  But I have always loved beginnings and the 'in-betweens'.  The last time I went for a car ride, I couldn't stop thinking how much the music had affected my surroundings. A happy song lifted the spirits of everyone inside and outside, in the middle it was like the whole world had become a part of a big musical if they liked it or not, but the end was always a disaster. The people still rushing by without even giving a thought to the end beat, the trees swaying way too energetically for an ending, the snoring of your sibling sitting right next to you, you just know this was not the ending you wanted. It's the same with any trip. Even though I fuss a lot about the whole journey, I secretly love sitting in the same position until I fee

The world is spinning around so fast around me, I feel like I am not even a part of it. But here I am in an overpriced dress, sitting in a coffee shop, holding the coffee cup a little too tightly, taking occasional sips and pretending that it was saving me. Is this even my favourite coffee shop? Why does the coffee taste like this- a little sway from being perfect? It irritates me even more. I know something can be done to fix the coffee but I can't exactly point it out. My life feels the same. Should I take control and ask them to make me another cup? Oh, the girl looks naive. I will just chuck it. I was getting late anyway. Maybe that is what is wrong with me. Pointing it out.  When your love life is a mess, the last place you want to be is at a wedding. Is it just me or is the happiness in the room pissing all of you? It's just me, it's just me. Why does everything look like a reminder that I am unhappy. I need to get out of here. I will just collect myself and be there

Chapter - 4 Love,love, love, where do I start? I loved being in love. No, I love being in love. I fell in love with eye contacts and smiles the moment I heard stories of long-lost loves. The ones where they promised to come back but wasn't heard of after, lost in time and wars.The ones where they confessed to each other only through eyes and hesitated to attend a get together party 23 years later being another's spouse. The ones that got lost in letters,in diaries, in terrible sights and in their smiles when they hear the word 'love'.  I love words. I love how I'd have to pause in between love stories and giggle. I remember finishing 'The God of Small things' and thinking how much Velutha loved Ammu and the most beautiful part is she knew. I remember praying for Cecilia and Robbie to reunite halfway through the book 'Atonement'. I love characters even though they are the writer's imaginations. The writers are strange creatures, they have the imme

Chapter - 3  A small note. I can't seem to remember the last time I felt like I wanted to disappear, which is a good sign. Disappear as in not an attempt for people to understand my worth, but just to erase the whole existence. When I think of it now, I feel like I was cruel to myself.  To Lily, I am sorry to have let you believe that you were in this alone for as long as I could remember. I know things would have been much better for you if only I'd answered those cries for help. I am glad that you stood up for yourself when they shamed you, even though you had to face consequences for the way you talked. I wished to console you but you were thinking about it too, like I was - was it true what they said? Was it really true? I cried a little when I saw you look in the mirror, never shredding a tear because you were used to it.  I am sorry that I let you believe that you couldn't love yourself, let alone others . The thoughts we had that you would always be a passer-by in ev

Chapter 2: Hate. Hate is such a strong word. I could never bring myself to look someone in the face and say 'I hate you' and mean it. But I have met people who could and it frightens me. The mere possibility of someone being filled with dread and anger at the thought of someone else. I always ask why, why do you hate them but the answers always go over my head. It scares me even more because I know it might be possible for me, for me to hate a person. Here's a story.  My grandma and I have these sessions in the afternoon where we talk until one of us falls asleep. We tell stories, talk about the day, talk about the future and sometimes about the past. One such afternoon, she decided to tell me a story. I still believe to this day that it was the comforting sunlight that gave enough warmth as a mother's breast, or the coolness of the pillow that would rock me to sleep, or the strange assurance of a listener that would be present till the end of the story, was what gave h

I feel like a 13year old when I see a park, a 16-year old when I am on a swing and feel my whole body lift off the ground, 19 years old when my heart fills with joy at the resonating sounds of laughs about how stupid I look. I was 13 years old when I saw you in a different light for the first time, thought it wasn't love because I had no insects in my stomach,but you felt like my person and somehow that wasn't enough, 16 year old when I almost gave my number to the most sweetest guy I know, felt like a 19 year old when I realised that I didn't want to go through any of it again. I feel like a 13 year old whenever I cry, 16 when I tell myself I shouldn't cry in front of others because I am old, 19 when I realise I can cry even more and loudly this time around. I was 13 years old when I loved to talk with people, all swarmed around me, 16 when I finally started opening up to people, 19 years old when I realise I crave for a talk over dinner and beach visits with my f

I wake up from what seems like a long sleep. My body is too tired to move. Before I open my eyes, I stretch my hands to reach out to my bedside stand so as to grab my spectacles. It had become a habit almost, not allowing myself to see with my weak vision. It had worsened throughout the years. I can feel how weak I have become. My hands brush past the stand, wait it was a table, unfamiliar texture. I knock down something, which wakes up someone sitting on a chair beside my bed. I open my eyes, I can barely make out my mom from the mirage of her familiarity. She tells me everything is okay which clearly implies that it is not. I ask for my spectacles. She hands them over to me. The first thing I notice is her face. Dried tears. I caress my weak hands over her soft skin. "Why are you crying?" She burst into sobs of tears and fears. She runs out, leaving me alone. Is it right to leave a dying person alone? Dying. It doesn't matter anymore. I  still remember how I sc