A Jar Of Happiness!!

Every single day of my life, I learn something new.. sometimes about myself, but most often I learn how to just live! Like being branded by fire.. every scar, every line, every single memory is exactly the way it's meant to be. Years ago I saw my life spiral from one heartbreak into another, endlessly. I imagined that when I would finally find happiness, it would be an ecstatic moment - it would be a real defining moment that I would be able to look back on and recollect every detail. I was so wrong. It wasn't one particular moment.. Happiness just silently came and danced with me! I think our lives are too often defined by the big, brave obstacles we've overcome but to me it's always been about the time I hit the wall n' crumbled completely. That's when the sheer beauty of our fragile souls comes through! Twisted logic maybe.. but nothing has ever been more true for me and my life. I've allowed the world to break my heart time and again, but I have also found a way for my heart to heal and love again. The struggle is not the change the world but to love it.

Angry Ramblings..

i typed out a very elaborate post about why i got angry n so forth... at the end of it i'd calmed down so i deleted it! talk about writing being a form of therapy! hah!! i feel vindicated!!!!!

Where is this coming from..??

moons.. clouds.. wind in my face.. june.. tea.. cake.. a ferris wheel.. sweet smelling erasers.. the ocean on my walls.. cold cold rain.. a bright blue wallet.. angel curls n white flowy dresses.. old fashioned greeting cards.. kheema dosa n nimbu paani.. tears.. fears.. freshly washed clothes.. scrapbooks.. promises.. fruit n nut.. painful high heels.. family pictures.. spicy noodles.. hugs n whispers.. dizzy dancing.. rainy birthdays.. cerelac.. holding hands..popcorn n coke.. bandaids.. dino-monkey.. tshirts n jeans.. head massages.. the agony of love.. the ecstacy of love.. kisses.. the last drag of a cig.. the eagles.. talking all night.. dreams.. schemes.. coloured beads.. christmas.. salon-washed silky hair.. doggy breath.. motorcycle rides.. philosophy.. poetry.. satin pj's.. violins.. airport arrivals.. saved text msgs.. vodka redbull.. fake smiles.. flower pots.. old friends.. sunday mornings.. fruity lip gloss.. ammuma's smell.. i've lived through each day of my life gathering it all together.. rolling it up into a ball of yarn.. so many things lost n many gained.. this is life.. or maybe not!!

RED

‘Physically abused’, ‘Violated’, ‘Sexually Assaulted’- terms that don’t even come close to describing what had happened to her. No, it hadn’t happened to her, it was done to her. ‘The event’ was announced to the world on the third page of the newspaper, in a tiny column on the bottom left corner. ‘Seventeen year old girl’…. ‘sexually assaulted’…. ‘temple’…. the words cease to make sense to her. She trembles at the sound of those temple bells, down the street. God? Where was he when they did that to her? How had he permitted it to happen? Suddenly rage takes control of her body. The paper had said she was sexually assaulted, as if those words would lessen the severity of what they had done to her. They had RAPED her - they, those men of god. Today, forty eight hours later, the sores on her body bore no semblance to the pain inside her. For every day of her life, the temple down the street had been her haven. It was her escape from family feuds. It was her resting place of peace and serenity, with god. A god who had betrayed her, a god who had deceived her. He had hurt her as much as those men. Suddenly, filled with rage that made her body quiver, she stood solidly on her feet. She wasn’t sore anymore, she was enraged. Her mother fearing for her daughter’s life, was very uncomfortable with the fire in her eyes - a fire that nobody expected to see again. She knew better than to stand in her way. She had lost her little baby to those men, but what could she have done? Her little child’s life would have been further ripped apart. Police men and lawyers would only make it worse. They would find a way to blame her, as they always manage to do in such cases. So she silently wept as she watched her child, her innocence stripped from her, walk out the front door.

That nameless, faceless ‘seventeen year old girl’ in the papers walked swiftly down the street to the temple. The same street she had walked forty eight hours ago, like every day before it. Two days ago, every step took her closer to her evening prayer. Today, she walked towards the ancient structure on the corner, that had lost it’s sanctity - it was where she had lost herself. As she stood at the temple gates, memories of the childhood come back to her. Days when she gathered flowers for god in her skirt, days when the priests had carried her fondly into the sanctum, where other devotees where not permitted. Days when she had sat for hours, watching them wash down the idol with milk and honey. Days when she had sat at the steps of the altar and sang to god. But most of all, she remembered how she hated being a girl. Because every month, the voice of generations before her told her that she was impure during the days of her period. She would sit by herself for those five days waiting eagerly for her misery to end so that she would be re-united with her god. Such was her devotion. But those days were now tainted with anger; with hatred; with betrayal. They had taken her childhood away from her. As the temple bell tolled, she felt her womb tremble with fear. She saw the men who had invaded her. She watched as all four of them went about the daily holy rituals. She watched their bodies move, those bodies that had taken turns to consume her. She watched as they kept up the façade of holiness and purity.

Suddenly they noticed her presence in that holy abode. Their eyes pierced her womb. They were undressing her all over again. She didn’t move as her eyes met theirs. She stood rooted to the spot in front of the altar. They suddenly noticed a dark streak on her red skirt. They realised that she was bleeding here, inside God’s holy altar. They cried out in holy chants and prayers as her blood began to ooze down her legs, seeping, spreading darkly, thickly, slowly over the temple floor. They hung their heads in shame, unable to face the rage in her eyes and the redness of her blood. Without realising it, they check for blood stains on their clothes and body. But she just stood there and bled.

Let me fall.. the one i will become will catch me..

This is my first post on my blog! I've never been the kind of person who maintained a blog or anything like it.. even now, this blog is just a result of much academic research. It started with my thesis revolving around gender and blogging... and has now evolved into so much more! One baby step at a time! I've always written.. in some form or the other.. just never online. When I dont write, I feel my world shrink.. losing it's colour and light! I think writing is a form of therapy.. I often wonder how people who dont write (or create anything for that matter!) manage to escape the madness of life. C. Day-Lewis said, "We do not write to be understood, we write in order to understand". So cheers to me.. for taking this leap.. the one i will become will catch me!