Background to those who’ve been living under a rock: A scholar named Dr. Rejith Kumar, as part of a series of “moral consciousness” lectures, made quite a few patronizing comments against women. Only one girl walked out. The media blew it up. People blew up. There was outrage against this guy, but more so against the media. Below are screenshots of some amazing comments on just one video of his speech. Look around Facebook for more. Or Twitter. Or other videos on Youtube. These activists are everywhere. Hey human beings with uteruses, hold on tight.
Disclaimer: I’m not witty, and wasn’t trying to be. Any accidental sarcasm is purely a shield for anger.
Dear lovely brothers of mine,
Continue reading “An Open Letter to the Brotherly “Activists” Who Protect My Uterus”
Found this a random flash drive. I think she wrote this for some kind of project a church friend was doing.
I was born in a middle class Orthodox Christian family in Central Travancore. My grandfather, a very religious person, used to pray seven times in a day and he inculcated in us a strong faith in God since childhood. My parents worked hard to raise their four children. I grew up watching the hard work of my father, a gazetted officer for the state government and the diligence with which my mother, a housewife, took care of the household. She took great interest in making sure that we did well in school. Continue reading “My Mother’s Story”
Silence or death. What if only those two choices remained in the world? She had finished the second page of her story when she- or rather, her character arrived at that question. She barely understood that concept, that condition in which one is really less than one. She always had more: the ability to think, just like the majority of the world. And with that, she had no trouble talking, writing and relating. Thoughts have to be stated, she thought, otherwise, what would be their point? It’s not really about freedom of speech, it’s simply freedom of Life.
I wish You had kept her happiness and not just the shape of her smile, that excitement and not just the tinted colors, and that rainbow in its wholeness, and that sorrow, that joy, that anger, that pain, that optimism.. I wish You, my lens, would keep something more than mere shreds of a world much too big for today and much too small to hold tomorrow.
What ever happens to twitters after one dies?
Can one still tweet from heaven?
Would God allow that much?
The last tweet remains frozen in time,
“I’m on my way there.”
She was on her way, it’s true,
but it simply wasn’t there.
I wish You had kept the way she talked and the reason for the sparkle in her eyes. I wish You could retain that warmth, in every one of her hugs. I wish You had treasured that feeling in our stomachs as we screamed our way down that roller coaster. And the taste of that Dippin’ Dots from that stall below the tracks.
Would facebooks be stored in time?
Or would They go through and say,
“She’s dead, let’s
How about her phone number?
And the blog she once had?
I wish You could feel and take pictures of her person and not just her face. I wish I could touch this screen and hear her voice. That laugh and brilliant disposition- couldn’t You keep those too? But You didn’t and will not. You will never understand. This makes no difference to You, whether the smile is real or fake, whether the subject is dead or alive, whether that’s excitement or fear. You only trap saturated colors on salted plastics, layered in compounds but never in emotions. Merely shreds.
But I- I want the world.
A saved voicemail,
“Call me when you get this.
I need to ask you a question.
i Miss you!”
I said yes to her question but
it doesn’t know.
it simply doesn’t Understand.
How long will it be saved?
“A voice with bells- you’ll get the solo,”
I told her that first.
The video shows her singing,
but it doesn’t know that I pushed her
onto the stage.
How long will it remain in a black case?
How long will life remain rolled-up?
Round, round, round it goes. Where it stops,
“Failure is not in my dictionary,” I began in a defiant tone, “because I am a flyer of kites. In my hands, I hold the strings to hundreds, thousands, maybe even millions of kites. In all different colors. They dance around in the sky, soaring higher and higher without limits.
Sometimes though, the wind blows too hard, the kite goes the wrong way or perhaps someone cuts the string. That’s what you call ‘failure’. And this kite falls down, slowly. Slowly, ever so slowly, it falls from the sky and comes to rest on a lone tree. More of these ‘failures’ follow. More kites. Blue. Yellow. Orange. Purple. Shiny. Plain. Glittery. Bright. Pale. Continue reading “Flying kites”
My father is sleeping
on the bare wooden floor.
He hasn’t woken up though
we have visitors today.
Lots of them sit around my father;
their backs to the open door.
Why, I thought, did my father go to sleep
on this bare wooden floor
as his bed lies inside,
waiting for him?
Then I realized the shocking truth
and my eyes filled with tears.
I wailed and ran to a corner,
trying not to cry.