Shelly was raised in a middle class family in a small town in India. A small town but with many traditions. The people followed the traditions like they were direct command from God. They could sacrifice themselves to nurture the traditions. Shelly was student of eighth standard, walking everyday one kilometre to her school. Some of the girls were going on bicycle to school except a few and Shelly was among a few. When coming back from school in the afternoon, her legs were paining, her steps were weak. One evening, she asked her mother for bicycle, she was thinking her mother will agree immediately. Her mother told her that good girls don’t ride bicycle, riding is for boys. Shelly requested much, tried best to make her understand that how her legs were paining when coming back from school. Finally she was riding bicycle to her school after one month. Shelly was scared all the time because she couldn’t find anyone similar to her. She had an alien feeling that she didn’t belong to that place and to those folks. Her favourite day was sunday cause that day she could live her secret. A secret _ a newborn writer, she composed poems and weaved stories on last pages of her rough copies. She wrote only on sunday in her study room and her mother assumed that she was studying school lessons. Her mother didn’t appreciate her writing. She was afraid to get judged and criticized. She lived a decade as a secret writer with a fear not to killed by the traditions.
Shall we put the tradition first or our own choice of living?
Link to A woman with flesh & heart @1
WOMAN _ It’s difficult to understand them, some says. It works like an age long myth. Indubitably, a woman is full of emotions, she is gifted with patience, kindness and extra more ability of adjustment. She can categories each emotion for each criteria of different relations. Inspite of all these, most of the times, she is treated as a tool to make others’ life comfortable. Of course, we’re wise and educated enough, living in a system which provides equality for men and women. But is it so?
Sometime I look around my surrounding and I see many faded faces losing their own identity. Their eyes are asking only question_
Till when I have to live for others?
Beginning is always chaotic
like the uncertain steps
in bottom of the river,
Timid hearts are everywhere
stitching tales of excuse,
But you’re the flame itself
till you die.
Sometime I don’t want to think, not a single thing. I want my mind to become total vacant. I don’t want to feel any emotion. My neurones are tired of carrying thousands of emotions all the time. I don’t find the words to arrange them in sentence. It seems words are hiding from me, they are protecting themselves from my ruthless ink.
I can eliminate all the fears
Which are holding me back,
My feet are one step away
from neverending adventure,
I’m still stubborn and wild
and no fear can make my heart fool.
Mid June sky, it was blue, peaceful and calm blue. I was sitting next to an iron window. My hands wanted to touch the blueish sky but I wasn’t a bird to fly towards them and touch them. I was penning lines for nature’s invincible beauty and the chemistry professor might be assuming, he got attentive student. Chemistry! It’s been nine years chemistry still goes over my head. Those chemical equations were buzzing in my ears which my brain couldn’t analyse. The view through the window was more breathtaking than the inside of the classroom. I had crush upon science but I was in love with literature, enigmatical words, waves of emotions behind the relations and fiction but mostly reflection of reality.