We try to love what cannot be tamed. Wild horses,

vodka in shapely bottles, angry men and the things
they carry. We have done what we could. They say
anything they can to justify leaving. That we are
always sad. That we have let our hearts burn out
for petty things. That we are too fragile. That we are to selfless.

That we are too dependent.

They accuse us of being too sad to love. 

We’re not sure where we’ve learned
this, to want the things we know we can’t have. 

Chances are,
we are all the same, riding high on velvet blue nights.
Our weaknesses have names and phone numbers,
addresses we can send letters to,
describing our love and poetry. We are praying for sixteen again,
for clear skin and boys
who asked for permission before holding our hands. They say
they can find us by our cheekbones, that they are
small, miraculous sources of light. 

Sometimes we’re safe
but usually we’re not. 

The crime scene tape
should have been our first clue.

Smile

Smile

like you have no

secrets

like you’ve

never been
left
never been
hurt
like the world
doesn't owe you a
single
wretched
thing.

Goldfish.

"I know I have so much potential.

 I know that I'm made of stars and I'm a creation boundless, infinite in possibilities and flowing with privileges far above any other creature.

 But when I think about it all, I'm afraid.

I'm afraid that I'm gifted with so much and yet I cannot be everything in this this lifetime.

I'm afraid that with so much possibility I'd drown in the sea of expectations the world filled up for me to swim freely.

That I'd be this gold fish, suffocating underwater because the aquarium is much too large; that as I reach the other end, I have also reached my end.

I'm afraid that once my coffin is covered in dirt, someone in the crowd would whisper: "Who is she?"

But then, like a gold fish, I swim.

Fruitlessly, endlessly, irrationally.

Because that is the only thing I know now.

Blindly do I go on, thinking all the while: Will the goldfish ever do justice the constellations of stars she's made of?"

The Arctic Wind

He tells warm lies through lips as cold as frost,
while his eyes cast frigid glares.
His backhanded barbs, sharp as steel,
strike like ice crystals in your heart.
Infidelity coats upon him like a sheen of ice.
Beauty and slippery deceit, rolled into one.
And yet, you stand, as a woman made of snow,
not truly seeing, not speaking out.
You slowly die, waiting for him to thaw.
A snowball in the hands of Hades stands a better chance,
than you, to win his heart.
For within his veins runs soiled slush
and his soul is an Arctic wind.

A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Likes

Most women are more sensitive about their looks than their feelings. Criticize how she looks and you risk hurting her. And how do you measure her sensitivity? It’s simple, just try clicking her pic. Slowly take out your camera, aim and wait for the miraculous transformation. 

Watch her eyes turn into pellucid pools of kindness, prepare to get blinded by her dazzling smile. But not before she flips her hair, turns her face 45 degrees north (her best angle), pinches her cheeks and smiles her mysterious smile. The one that makes her look like Monalisa.

Even better than Monalisa

You see, she wants the world to see what she sees in the mirror.

Candid clicks are a big no and you can’t get away with just one shot. You are expected to click her again and again from different angles. It’s not because she doesn’t trust you. Experience and many ugly mugshots have taught her that you and your camera take time to warm up to her loveliness. So, she is willing to say cheese 17 times, just for the sake of a priceless capture. The one she can proudly show to her grandkids, when she gets old and wrinkled. Then she will grandly inspect all the shots you took and make you promise to delete the unflattering ones. If you don’t, you risk her wrath. If you upload it on Facebook, you risk getting killed. 

 

This is a strict no-no 

We women have a secret pact – thou shalt not tag/upload any ugly shots of ours. The moment a friend takes out her mobile and aims, we exchange that secret look. “You will make me look the diva that I really am”. Photos that inadvertently capture Christmas indulgences spilling out of our jeans or make us look like a hungry hippopotamus, are meant live happily ever after in the recycle bin.

Since most photos are clicked for the sake of Facebook, we make sure each one of us is informed once they have been uploaded. And then we wait for the comments to follow. Look aghast when only 15 friends like it. Pretend to blush when someone gushes about how we look.

In my distorted opinion, we women spend 33.3% of their lives complimenting each other about our looks. 

One look at a new profile pic on a social networking site and you’ll know what I’m talking about. Out of the 55 comments she gets, 49 will be from her girlfriends – Ooo, you gorgeous thing! Again there’s a secret pact. In a parallel universe it’s called reciprocity. You praise me and I will praise you back – get it? 

I blame social networking sites. Before Facebook, we’d quietly click a few dozen pics of us frolicking in Gulmarg, stick them inside an album with a floral cover, wait for relatives to come over and pounce on them. They’d leaf through the albums, sip Rooh Afza and make a few appreciative noises. That was it. To be called beautiful, we had to solely rely on the free services provided by roadside Romeos. Of course, verbally challenged Kamal Kumar could only express his appreciation by whistling. And that was perfectly okay!

And now thanks to our 567 online friends, who spend all their waking hours waiting to like you and your pics, how can you not believe that you are God’s gift to mankind?

Men seem to be under the impression that we dress up for them. Let me roll on the floor laughing before I shout – you are so wrong! Nope, we dress up for other femmes. Only a woman is capable of noticing the finer nuances of our appearance – the all new plum shade of lipstick, the perfectly tailored trouser that sits so flatteringly on our bum, the brand new clunky watch! And it takes us exactly 10 seconds before we furnish this appraisal. Now turn towards your man and all he will be able to muster is – looking nice, babe! We try our best not look affronted and smile painfully. Yes, it hurts to be called nice. It hurts more if someone calls you cute and it hurts the most when someone has the audacity to suggest – Erm! You look better in your photographs.

No one wants to be caught like that 

Try saying that and you will be hurled out like yesterday’s chapatis.

It’s because all of us would like to believe, that we are prettier and slimmer than our pics. But if you want to risk lifelong affection from us, try looking for our inner beauty. We are suckers for men who appreciate us for the person we are.