Things to Talk About : Body Shaming

Note: Essay writing has always been quite a task because unfortunately our education system is as unimaginative as it gets. Thus after years of writing 'Science: a curse or a boon' and 'Unity in Diversity' my prose writing has simply refused to produce anything more than Facebook status updates. This is but a desperate attempt, because someone seriously awesome told me that we should try to write about things we feel deeply about. I feel deeply about 'body shaming'. 

I think I was in the second standard, when my grandmother first pointed out that I might have gotten exchanged at birth, because I was not fair like my parents or my grandparents. It was a joke. It was a ‘harmless’ joke which eventually became my identity. I was the dark, tall, blunt featured girl who after a point hated school programs because she would always get the weirdest possible roles, even though everyone admitted that she was a great performer. I am the only girl I know who has been cast as Ravana, Yamraj, Duryodhana, Hanuman, a tree, local gunda, and the Giant in The Selfish Giant. The only feminine role I was ever offered was that of the Goddess Kali. Though an adult me knows that any role is worth the effort, but a 15 years old me had had enough, and said goodbye to her aspirations to join professional theatre. 

I think I would have called quits on a lot of things but thankfully, my parents were feminists of their time who brought up their daughter like a ‘son’ and I wore my hair short, bought only pants throughout my teenage, and played football at the neighbourhood field, picking up profanity faster than any boy of my age. I was desperate to prove to everyone that I could become a better boy, and nobody pointed out that a child should just aspire to be better; the gender is irrelevant. I was the letter perfect tomboy, and before the hormones could even hit me properly, the fate of Kajal in ‘Kuchh Kuchh Hota Hai’ and Rani in ‘Mujhse Dosti Karoge’ had already taught me that in the rare occasion of romance, I shall always remain second to the ‘Fairs’ & the ‘Lovelies’. 

The Defining Moment Of My Childhood

It is quite unnerving to imagine how smoothly a teenager was being taught her place in the society just by her looks, and no one seemed to quite understand the role that they were playing. My cousin did not realize that during our trip to the north-east, when she laughed about my mongoloid features, she was just kickstarting a lifelong discomfort with one’s own face. My physical education teacher did not understand that while warning the boys on the field against picking a fight against me, he was mocking my genetically inherited strength, and made me give up karate while I really liked it. My ‘foreign-return’ uncle, did not think that his joke about finding me a husband from Nigeria because ‘no Indian man will be a match for her’, developed body image issues, in me, so deep rooted, that it took multiple abusive relationships and a lot of reading to finally see through all of this. Another blog post is necessary to touch upon the conditions that finally made me muster the strength to fight against the anxiety of never being good enough.      

I am telling my story because it is my story to tell, but I know a hundred similar stories of women and men developing body image issues because of the lack of awareness among adults, who have been our guardians or heroes at some point. It’s so frustrating to think that adults, the people whom we were supposed to be looking up to, were creating such deep gashes on our self-esteem and simultaneously teaching us racism without so much as a flinch. Believe it or not, 70% of my friends’ circle is made up of self-loathing individuals who would just about do anything for some amount of validation, and they are actually the happier lot that I know. 

Some of us developed unhealthy defence mechanisms, which range between eating disorders and commitment issues to self harm and crippling depression, and that’s not even the sad part. The sad part is that nobody is ready to take responsibility. Nobody is ready to accept that their words and attitude had such profound effects on young minds that it is taking lifetimes to deal with that trauma. Most of the time, I think people are insensitive and selfish but then again everybody is shaming everybody else. How is this system going on for so long without anyone realizing that it is harming us all? 

My cousin damaged her hip permanently wearing heels because she was short. My physical education teacher became an alcoholic when he developed a potbelly (or was it the other way round?), but he definitely suffered. And my uncle left home in the first place because he was bullied for not having ‘manly’ looks. But will these people understand the implication of their own actions? I don’t think so, and even if they did understand, they won’t accept it because if they did, they will also have to acknowledge the role of society, media, culture, and individuals in creating such disturbed human beings and good god, imagine the complete overhaul of values and standards it will take to put things right! Let’s just look the other way.  

A post-colonial country like ours does not bother much with stats. So, I don’t have figures for India, but a BBC report in 2019 had reported that 1 out of every 8 British citizens has had suicidal thoughts because of body image issues. Add to this our obsession with fair skin, Aryan features, and the general lack of sensitivity towards mental health, you will see that the figures in our third world country is the numeric version of the word ‘dismal’.   

Nonetheless, the world is apparently changing and even ‘Fair & Lovely’ got a new name but funnily, 2020 CBSE Class XII topper, Divyanshi Jain could not escape becoming a meme. A girl who managed to score the highest marks in the country was being laughed at -- you know why? Because she is bucktooth. Just that. While you let that sink in, I have a question for you humanity: how do you sleep at night?     

Anxious - 1

Desperate evenings like these
Bring along the necessity
Of reassurance
The need to sit down with a colouring book
And draw a road
Getting lost in the distance.
That road which leads to
A quieter childhood
And softer winters
One needs peace to draw a blue sky
Or a green field
Or a small house.
A house with a little child
With crayons strewn on the floor.
Colouring her anxieties away.

Back to the Basics, Please!

The newspapers hailed it as a landmark verdict. Most of the population on social media praised the progressive judgement given by the Supreme Court but upon implementation, the lift of ban on women entering the Sabarimala Temple faced major criticism in Kerala. Kerala has the highest literacy rate among all the states in our country. 

There were protest marches where thousands of women walked in demonstration of their support of the ban on women entering the temple. They were claiming themselves to be devotees of Lord Aiyappa. They were marching because they believed that they were unworthy of entering his holy shrine.

This was happening right before Durga Puja when one of my friends was telling me how she was not going to be able to take part in the rituals of ‘anjali’ and ‘baron’ during Puja because she was going to get her ‘chums’. My friend is a post-graduate on Women’s Rights and Gender Studies. 

Irony died several slow deaths as I sat reading about the Sabarimala verdict.

I read articles on how the issue was being politicized. I read a gazillion tweets about a stupid comment by Smriti Irani. I even read up all information available on the internet about the mythological references of Aiyappa and Sabarimala legacy but nobody was talking about why and how was all rationale failing when it came to blind faith.

There are three points to be noted here.

Highest literacy rate which means prevalence of education could not save Kerala from understanding that the judgement passed by the apex court was in line with the fundamental right given to all citizens of this country - that nobody can be discriminated against, based on caste, creed, religion, gender or identity of any sort. People failed to accept and understand the necessity of a broader mind set which we take to be default result of acquiring education.

Women, who have been oppressed for generations and have been denied freedom and respect because they menstruate, a necessary natural process, could not think of themselves beyond the social customs and beliefs instilled in them. They failed to recognize themselves as human beings first and not sexual objects inspite of facing the resultant disrespect throughout their lives in some form or the other.

An educated, independent, young woman such as my friend still believed that menstruation is ‘dirty’, ‘unholy ’ and 'impure'. She consciously decided not to participate in Durga Puja because she had never been taught, as a woman, to think of herself as a complete individual with a sense of self-respect and ownership of her mind and body. Even her degree in Women’s Rights could not make her stand up against such regressive customs; sadly could not even create the consciousness in her.

As inexplicably bizarre as it may sound all the above points are the direct result of us believing women to be the lesser kind.  

I love it how we keep talking about empowering women without making them understand what empowerment actually means. We equate empowerment with jobs, academic excellence, social status but never with self-respect; never with women having full consciousness of their mind and their body.

Let’s please start at the basic now. Let us please teach our daughters that they are not impure for having a natural physiological process that involves blood coming out of their genitals. Let us please teach them that it is not shameful to accidentally get a stain on their dresses; that they don’t have to hide it from their brothers, fathers, male friends or colleagues when they are getting period cramps. No amount of education or professional achievement will have truly empowered women if we don’t stop all regressive practices related to the woman’s body and not break the fake concept of purity right at our homes. Let us please teach the coming generation of women to first respect themselves because if we are raising our women to think of themselves to be second class citizens then whatever we might do, we will not have progressed as a nation.  

Photo sourced from Google

Happy

To imagine that there are people lonelier than me. To think that there are people who do not choose their loneliness. It is sad.

Sad is such a small word. At times it simply fails to capture the magnitude of the heartbreaking numbness that comes with the feeling. But probably that is the idea. The idea is to not let anyone know through big words or probably the idea is to stay quiet.

To imagine that there are people quieter than me. Who do not even think of saying 'hello' to strangers the way I wish to do.

Wish is such a strange word. The world revolves around wishes. We wish for things, for moments, for people and all we ever achieve are failures. We still keep wishing.

Probably someday we'll be replacing the word 'wish' with 'hope'. Probably someday we will learn to hope for the right things.

Like, I'll start hoping for a less lonelier room. Instead of looking for my place with anyone who seems to have even a little bit of gap. Possibly I'll look for a person, who like me, hopes to find a hand to hold. Because human touch releases 'serotonin' in our brains. Serotonin is a happy hormone.

Happy is such a light word. One could probably replace all the helium in the world - in balloons, in the atmosphere and even in the Sun - with happy. The Sun probably would shine brighter if it had a little bit of happy and possibly would have lived a little longer. Like all of us.

To a Friend

Let's share a coffee someday
Ideally in a quaint little town
Where faces will be just faces
Words merely passing.
They will not bring back death
Of everything once held close.

Let's find a favourite corner
By a small little window that
Neither brings light or hope
And share a coffee.
Coffee that tastes of your numbness
A little salty, to be honest.

I will not ask. You don't have to say.
In between cappuccinos and insignias
Not much will be left anyway
The pain will however be more human
Not bearable. Just human.
With eyes and ears and nose and tongue
And a coffee in her hand.
Your pain will be sitting right across you
Holding a cup of coffee in her hand.

Two People

Two people are walking around
A town they call home.
Two people who have been to
Too many other places.
Two people who have met too many
Other people, are walking around
Streets that smell of childhood.
They are talking about
Angry fathers
And distant families.
Of songs that are sad
And of songs that are happy.
Of past and future.
Tense.
It's past midnight
And two people are walking
Towards and away from each other.

 

Didun

I am scared that she might die tomorrow and so it is important that I write about her today.

I have had the past 15 years; basically the time since I have been able to make coherent meaningful sentences, to write about her but I never did. 

Didun is there. Right next door. One call away. One 'O Didun, Ma marchhe!' (Didun, Ma is beating me!) away. She isn't going anywhere. At least that is what I thought and left home; and have been living away; growing distant to what life looked like. A bit more everyday. 

She isn't really my grandmother. As in we aren't related by blood. We, small town people have this thing about making people our grandmothers and brothers and uncles and nieces. To be honest our smallness of existence in that small town where nothing happens finds purpose only through how many people are we connected to. How many households we visit during festivities, how many families call us for help in an emergency and of course, how much we mean to them because in this small town where nothing ever happens, one surely needs to find a purpose.  

So Didun,in fact was my 'real' grandmother's best friend and next door neighbour. They were these two well-educated women in a time where they were a rarity with retired husbands and established children and a life full of failed aspirations but so very graceful about it all. 

My 'Chhobir Dinna' which literally translates into 'Grandmother in the photograph' (read my real grandmother) passed away before I even spoke my first word, so without any recollection of her whatsoever, I went ahead and decided that Didun, invariably, is all the grandparent I shall ever have because the rest were either dead or not living up to the expectation. 

In my growing up years, Didun and I have spent a lot of time together which involved other people but was significantly just about us. One of our rituals was that on every Monday evening, after school I'd eat at her place. I'd also help her with her pujas at times, braid her hair, lie next to her and listen to stories and also do homework with her at times. Didun was also the first person I'd run to in case of an uncalled for injury. Because if I were to go to my mother with a cut on my knee and tell her that I got it while racing a friend on my cycle, it'd mean saying goodbye to my evenings of cycling around forever. While going to Didun would mean no scolding but injuries being tended to and also a treat of some sort for just braving the injury.

If I am ever asked to define Didun in one word, it would be 'solution'. She practically had solutions to everything. From ridding fish bone stuck in the throat to tea stains on new clothes. From how to fix a completely messed up curry to bringing up an adamant, gender-confused teenager who insisted on wearing clothes that belonged to her dead father. Didun has handled all of this with such finesse and has given such great advice to that child's mother that not even for once could I believe that this woman doesn't hold a PhD in Homemaking, only to find out later to utter disappointment, that they didn't have this as an academic subject.

To be honest, I had never really thought much about her till date, but now when I see the fragile, shriveled human being smiling at me and asking me about work, marriage and life, I realize how pretty she was. Long hair till her waist, a kind smile and a never-give-up attitude. 

I remember, I was in junior school when one year just before Durga Puja, Bengal was hit by flood and our small town where nothing ever happens was very badly affected. This woman who now can't recognize people properly had hosted 13 people in her 1600 square feet house for 20 days, cooking and cleaning after them like this is how they have lived all their lives. Every year during the winter vacations she would arrange for a picnic for all the children in the neighbourhood, she'd cook our favourite food and bring it over every now and then, she had adopted all the dogs on our street, she'd be the first person to run to any neighbouring house if there was a medical emergency and she was also the person who could put my grief-stricken mother to sleep when my father passed away. 

I was in my IXth standard when I started giving out tuition and was basically about to earn my first salary ever. Over-excited about everything, I went and told Didun about my achievement and in a very unlike-her voice Didun said, 'Make sure you bring your first salary directly to me.' I didn't understand but I still did. She took the envelop which had a paltry 450 rupees inside and said 'Thank you.' Honestly, that did break my heart a little but there wasn't much to say. I wondered for a pretty long time that what could she have done with it? My first salary. My first ever hard-earned money. Eight years later I again went to her with my first proper paycheck, this time the amount was not as insignificant and told her very smugly, 'I'll give you this if you tell me what you did with my first salary.' 

'I gave it away to the poor. First earnings should go to God.' she replied. 

So, she might die tomorrow and might not be able to tell her that she is all that I have left from my childhood but Didun did make the best custard and pickles and fried rice and Grand Mom I've ever had. 

P.S: Me: Do you know how to take a selfie?

       Didun: No. Let's take one.

        

    

  

Zest

Something I shall never be able to write about.

Yours Sincerely

When we fall in love
We hope that the curves and crevices
And bents and dents of a person
Are of the exact shape that would fit in
Our sharp edges and blunt ends.
We flaunt our jagged past that sticks out.
We keep our scarring ideas at hand
Not to hurt but to show that this -
Is what needs to be embraced.
But then as we get closer,
We become weary of or irregularities.
We become embarrassed of our flat dullness
And start moulding;
Bending a little comfort here
Breaking of a little self-respect there.
Finally it becomes a competition about
Who is doing it better.
Who is sacrificing more scaring ideas
And whose past has been polished
Into a more fitting memory of gone by days.
Some of merely manage
To fit in certain curves with gaping holes
And try to make the mismatched bends here and there work.
However, some of us let go.
Because for us -
It is not about fitting into that puzzle.

on the Xystus

So we will go to Greece
And we will put on hats like tourists do
We'll walk down beaches and sit at monasteries
There will be stories all over the place
Also decadence
We shall talk of our days
Of coffee flowers and small rooms
The sun will gradually set on us
We shall walk some more
To friendly inns and deserted by-lanes

We shall not meet for years
But when we go to Greece---
We shall kiss on the xystus.

Why not?

It all started on a summer evening. Like every other middle class Bengali who is still in Kolkata and has surprisingly managed to get employed, I had a long, tiring, and 'sweaty' day at work. Just as I was gathering my stuff to leave, I was invited on a 'walk to the metro station' by this really hot colleague of mine who is so out of my league that Sakhshi Tanwar would feel a little more comfortable playing Daenerys Targaryen than what I felt.

I was anxious, I was sweaty and to top it all, I was self-conscious to the point of a nervous break down.. Now who wouldn't be conscious if you are as tall as a lamp post with dark circles till your chin and oil pouring out of your skin like the middle-east? I have grown up watching the 'Fair and Lovely' ad which has taught me that to get married, or to get a lover and even to get a job you need to be fair and lovely. 

The moment we stepped outside the office and started walking he asked 'Is something bothering you?' and me being me blurted out, 'I am so sweaty that my pants are sticking to my inner thigh and my underarms feel like jelly fish.' I knew I had made friends with a good man when at this point, my hot colleague burst out laughing. He pat me on my back and said, 'That's good. It proves that you have worked a lot throughout the day.' Thus, the day was made.

The idea, however has stuck to me ever since. Why don't we ever appreciate what is natural? Why are we so ashamed of the fact that we sweat, or have facial hair or have huge feet? 

Well to be honest, by 'we' I actually mean women. I have seen my girl friends and also have subjected myself, to absolute torture when we have spent our own hard earned money to pull hair out of our skin. Waxing every bit of self love that we have and threading our personalities to that perfect arch of an eyebrow. 

I have been told by my male and female friends alike that I sweat like a 'man' but very few appreciate or even acknowledge the fact that I do a lot of things like a 'man' by the social standards. 

I run after the bus like a man without thinking about whether my breasts are drawing attention from all that running. I carry 20 litre water jars up the stairs to the fourth floor of a building, without asking another man for help. I swear like a man, at a man or woman who pisses me off without worrying whether it is 'lady-like' to know of such profanity. So the question is why isn't this ok? Why is it that I am usually taken to be this very angry and volatile person because I behave in the way that naturally comes to me? 

My lack of filters is thus considered to be 'manly' but why on Earth should natural behaviour be the essence of one gender while the others are expected to pretend all the time? 

I will bet my life on this that nobody will be able to give me an answer to these questions other than 'Men and women are different' or 'Women look beautiful when they take care of themselves' or similar such absolutely pointless arguments which basically do not even qualify as an argument because we have already accepted them.

Here I have a request for the handful of readers this blog post may ever get. Can we please start thinking about not stereotyping gender? Can we please start accepting people with all their naturally beautiful flaws? Can we please appreciate women who sweat, as hard workers? Men who go to the salon regularly are not homosexuals by default and even if they are, you and I are nobody to mock them. Men who spend time to look good are not feminine. Why not just accept individuals? Tell me, why not?

VFX and more: The Great Indian Hypocrisy Worth Rs 250 Crore

Fuck Bollywood! Fuck the Khans! Fuck the racist North Indians! Bahubali is a blockbuster with a record opening in its first week and nobody can simply get enough of it. Neither could I, and therefore dedicated one whole evening to try and understand what 'CGI' meant. 'Imma be cool like that!'

Statutory warning for anybody who expects to read a film review: you can stop right here and go watch Bajrangi Bhaijaan; the rest of the cynics who are hurt every time a film is not even half of what its trailer promises may continue reading.

For a longer part of this year, every time somebody said ‘Indian Cinema’ it sounded like ‘Bahubali’. You know, how Mr S.S Rajamouli had single-handedly decided to transform the face of Indian cinema by spending Rs Two Hundred and fifty-wait-for-it- Crore and the media couldn’t say, think or ask anything about the content or storyline because, 'Fuck all that! This dude just spent enough money to feed the entire country for a couple of days at least, so who cares? We’ll just relax in our royal recliners and have popcorn or sip pointlessly brain-freezing cold drink to digest our emotions as the regal orphan is brought up by the always awestruck tribal people.'  

Now without any spoiler alert, I can tell you that the very beginning of the film gave me a slight feel of Jungle Book, where there is an abandoned infant and a strong motherly figure but hola! Within minutes of having unbelievable graphics thrown at my face, I realized that it is about a giant of a man who can’t get laid in his neighbourhood because of his bossy mother and decides to risk his life only and only so that he can find the girl who is hot enough for his tremendous masculinity. Anybody who begs to differ will also call ‘E Laldupattewali tera nam toh bata’ a song of light humoured friendship where the heroes do obscene facial expression and insist on touching the heroines against their will because the Godmen of this country have announced: ‘Women actually like rape’. Period.

If you have read any amount of literature or have watched even one Pixar movie or had befriended me, even by mistake, then you should already know where I am heading. Yes, from all those magnificent bloodshed and self-righteous dialogue delivery, what stuck to me from Bahubali is the mating sequence of the leading pair. No, it’s not a song sequence or a dream sequence, as they like calling it. Or even a romantic sequence for that matter. It’s an out and out mating sequence where most of the mating was being done forcefully. You may, and I repeat you may call it a ‘romanticized rape sequence’ but yeah, that’s mostly all about it.

Even if I decide to overlook all my other problems with the film, like over-rated graphics, bad junior artists, continuity mistakes and lack of logic, I simply cannot overlook this magnificently romanticized rape sequence that I COULD NOT believe was going on.

There is nothing, that I might say that would be sufficient to express my disappointment with the filmmaker over that one sequence. The character of Avanthika, played by Tamanna Bhatia is introduced as a formidable female fighter who doesn’t care about looks or life but of course that’s no way to lead a girl’s life, yo! So you need an oaf to come and rip you off your clothes, paint your lips and touch you in all inappropriate ways so that you can feel all feminine and then finally, fall for him.

I was stunned. Still, kind of, am. How on earth could a man think of passing this off as romantic? What unearthly spirits should possess a man to actually think that standing in the 21^st Century, in our country, where one of the biggest problems right now are the innumerable crime against women, it is okay to propagate such objectification of the gender?

After that, the whole time that I sat through the movie trying to forget about the crater this film had made in my pocket, I realized that I might just be the only person thinking about it right now. The rest of them might be gloating over the strength that Rajamouli’s female characters portray. The character ‘Shivagami’ for example is the apparent epitome of female strength but she won’t sit on the throne because that’s what ages of Indian patriarchy has taught us. And none of us have a problem with that. The fact that the filmmaker allowed this one odd female to be strong is more than what we can ask for.

We don’t even wince once, when the great ‘Bahubali’, the ultimate man dances with the three sexy dancers in the ‘what-was-the-point-of-that-again’ scene because ‘hey, come on dude! A man’s gotta have his fun!’ That is what young men are supposed to do. It is absolutely okay to behave like a pornstar with a woman outside your family. 

I mean that’s what Indian hypocrisy is all about.  Because it’s ok if you pass a comment on a female on a train as long as you don’t beat your wife up. Because staring at a woman’s body is perfectly alright as long as you don’t let your daughter wear short clothes. Because everything we say or do is a waste because nobody, not a single person in that huge fucking crew of Bahubali had a problem with these things. Nobody associated with that film pointed it out to the great Rajamouli that it is wrong to demean women like this and the romanticization of such violation encourages violence and crime against women. That after years of having film heroes getaway with teasing their future wives on the road, it is time that Indian Cinema made a different statement. That Avanthika should have slapped the shit out of Shivudu.

Untold

Don't you worry love,

This will pass and so will that.

Everything we've ever pretended

Will eventually disappoint

And then love,

There'll be nothing sorry.

Together love

We shall write a sad poem then

Or at least - hold on a little longer.

Courtesy: Hari Menon Photography

Therefore and Thereafter

There was just but 'reality' as they called it. They said it was amazing. It was beyond all experiences. 'The sight of reality' they said, 'is so powerful, that at times you get transfixed or may be...may be you'll lose your sight for life.' They kept on saying it. They kept on repeating themselves for some of them believed though they never said it out loud, that repeating things, repeating them continuously make them real. They just believed that but never said it out loud. They repeated it till everybody had heard it. They repeated it till everybody learnt the word. They repeated it till everybody was talking about it. Everybody knew it was there... somewhere. But they stopped as soon as somebody tried to comprehend the meaning. They hated questions.

However, in the midst of all this, there came a poet. All this while he was just there. Neither did he ask questions nor did anybody ask that why didn't he ask questions. Some Mr Know-it-All commented 'No point talking to him. He'll never understand reality. He believes, thrives, grows and survives on imagination.' So they left him. They kept him aside like a piece of paper which has been so badly scribbled upon that there is no more space left. They couldn't fill him up with anything else. So they just left. 

The poet had heard about the new 'word' in town. He tried to talk to a few of them to understand what was going on but nobody was ready to talk. They were just speaking, shouting, answering, justifying but nobody was explaining. None of them were talking and what seemed very weird to the poet is that nobody, not a single person was asking questions. 

He met a man who was telling anybody who would listen that he had answers to everything and asked 'If you are saying that you're going to give me all the answers why aren't you asking questions?' But nobody was listening so the man did not answer. He said the answers were for everybody. He can't give it out to one person. The poet asked a few more of them but everybody was so busy speaking that nobody heard that the poet was trying to talk to them.

Everybody had accepted by now that 'reality' was the most powerful thing in the world and while the universe was settling down in peace an anonymous pamphlet came out. It floated around the town like a fallen autumn leaf. People tried to catch it but they failed. They tried to send men to get it but nobody could. Mr Know-it-All said 'It's a stray parchment. Leave it.' Somebody else said 'In reality, how can a stray parchment fly around the city like that?' Everybody heard a question after a long time. They got excited. Everybody now started speculating. Meetings were held and committees were brought into effect but nobody could catch that rogue pamphlet. In the mean time somewhere someone felt a weird little tinge at the back of their head. 

Finally somebody said 'Call that poet, he might know what is there in the pamphlet. He knows about all these things.'

As the poet came, they demanded an answer. He brought out the pamphlet and read it out loud.

"Imagine. For imagination asks questions, all whose answers are there in reality."

In the mean time, somewhere someone named the weird little tinge at the back of their head as 'imagination.'

Sobriety

The most pretentious state of being that human mind could come up with. Because at the end of the day, you are either faking it or you don't like it.

Accept it.

Regularity

I woke up in the afternoon
And felt so tired of being me
That I became an autumn leaf.

By evening I was tired
Of floating around
In the slight breeze
And became the shadow
Of a lamp post.

As night fell,
The trampling feet
That walked over me...
Over and over again,
Broke me beyond repair.
I started oozing out light.

All the light
Stored inside me
For the next Light Donation Camp
Came out and drenched the road.

By morning
I dragged myself to bed
And signed a Peace Treaty
With the Universe.

Qcumbersome

Served on a plate of awkwardness they ordered for a salad of uncomfortable and called it Qcumbersome.

Procrastination

took her over a year to find out what the word means.
The word that told the story of her life.

On the Flip Side

That is the better side to be on. I genuinely feel that the flip side is THE side to be on.

It's risk-free, less-hassle and people generally think that it is the wrong side to be on, so no living up to any expectations.

Oh I love that part! I love not living up to expectations because I hate it when people don't live up to mine. And they do it with such prowess,I tell you! They give me serious inferiority complex. Brrrrr... the very thought gives me goosebumps.

Being on the flip side also develops your personality. You become shit-resistant and actually with years of practice you might just become shit-proof. Like nothing affects you.

Sarcasm becomes your defense mechanism and I'll also tell you one of the trade secrets, you can mask your bitterness as wit.

On the flip side you are also alone.  Almost all the time. That again means more time to read, watch movies and be creative and better as a whole.

I have always liked the Flip side but now that I am actually here, I am loving it.

Normal

Climbing two steps at a time because you have long legs is normal.
Tripping down and falling--- very very normal.