Feminism is unnecessary

When I was a little girl

I learned a world

I’d have to say for the rest

of my life.

Sorry

Sorry, for wanting to be more

than a daughter, a mother, sister and wife

Sorry for not having a penis

and having breasts instead

Sorry for demanding to be in places

which did not lead to a man’s bed

Bitch, slut, whore are what I become,

Should I wear my skirt above my knee

And then they tell me

Feminism is unnecessary

 

All the numbers in the world

Show that the equality has a dent

A man makes a dollar,

a woman, 77 cents

A woman can work as much as a man

Still not get equally paid

When she rises to the top, all they say

She must have gone back down on him

She must have gotten laid

Stand up for what I want

And I become assertive and bossy

Even then, they tell me

 

Feminism is unnecessary

Clutch your heart and tell me, folks

if there’s even one day that’s gone

Without the news channels telling a story

a woman who hasn’t been wronged

Abused, murdered, raped and burnt

Openly stripped on the streets.

Feminism isn’t just women, helping women

We need the men here too, you see

Your sisters, mothers, daughters, wives are in danger

Its time you stepped up, and expressed your anger

The day we can gift our daughters and granddaughters

The gift of equality

That day, you can tell me

Feminism is unnecessary

 

Rumi, Rupi and Ghalib. Why do poetry at all?

A proud literati and arts enthusiast, I was fortunate to have been introduced to literature at a young age. And it clearly is a love I’ve nurtured and grown stronger over time. First reveling in the bliss of the words, and then creating my own. From an avid reader to a word artist.

And I’ve loved literature in all its forms. Prose, for its stories. Drama, for the characters. Yet, poetry has been my favorite.

Why poetry? I hear you ask.

Literature speaks to the mind. Drama to the heart. But poetry, to the soul. And if you ask me, the purest form of creating art with words. Of telling you, what you already know. Not in an informational, objective manner. But in a way in which the heart wants to listen. Almost akin to what the said about the spoonful of sugar making the medicine go down.

Everyone has their own definition of what constitutes good art. Mine is what stands the test of time, comes instilled with a sense of purpose,and makes you think. And poetry is no exception. In its truest form, poetry is an enricher. A savior. A comforter. And that’s why even today, when life hits hard, I seek refuge in either classics like Rudyard Kipling, Maya Angelou, or Robert Frost, or evergreens like Harivansh Rai Bacchan, Rumi and Kahlil Gibran, or even the more contemporary ones like Rupi Kaur, Nayyirah Waheed and Lang Leav.

And the reason I’m drawn to each one of them remains the same. The endearing quality of the words to uplift, inspire, heal, nourish and empower.

There are critics, and there are enthusiasts. I clearly belong to the latter. And while critics (or at least those who choose to call themselves that) will talk about poetry having died and lost its purity, I beg to differ. Art has this unique ability to adapt itself to meet the needs of the generation it caters to. From a time where poetry was composed with quills and written on parchment paper, to a time where the words are read on mobile screens. Art, in every form, is art. And in my world, from Shakespeare’s sonnets to Rupi Kaur’s instapoetry, they’re all welcome. For each one touches a different note, echoes a different chord of the soul. And as long as the soul exists, poetry shall stay. And not just stay, reign.

Of variables, constants & more.

Life is change,

And change is life.

And along the way, I learned,

There are the variables,

Things, places and people.

That find their way into your story.

To come, stay a while, and leave.

To never return, or look back.

For of the tale

They were a part, a chapter, a page.

That earring I lost,

and searched and searched

To never find it again.

The house I grew up in,

On which today stands a hotel.

That friend who moved away,

And promised to write back,

But never did.

The love stories that were to be,

happily ever afters,

But became tales of heartbreak and tragedy instead.

And then there are the constants,

Things, places and people.

That come, and never leave.

That favorite coffee mug,

You’ll always notice amidst the others.

That go-to restaurant down the corner.

The one that never disappoints.

That sibling,

Who’ll be the worst enemy

And the best friend,

All at once.

That book, you’ll always turn to

On the cold winter evening.

Mommy’s chocolate cake recipe,

The one that succeeds, when all else fails

The strangers that become friends,

To family, and maybe even beyond.

And sadly, these are always few,

And hard to find.

But along this journey, I learned,

That the variables are to be let go of,

For they had a purpose, a role to play.

Which now is past.

And the constants, held on to.

To be loved, and cherished.

And to be held tight.

For constants are blessings

Slight illusions of permanence

Amidst the ever changing.

Nurture the constants,

Let go of the variables.

But never confuse the two.

Nor over attach to either

or despise any.

For as I learned, they’re both imperative, 

The yin and the yang

The black and the white

The night, and the day.

And in the end, as we learn.

Life is change.

And change is life.

She Thought, and so she did.

She was a rebel, always had been,

A woman of her own mind, a free spirit,

For within the depths of her heart & soul,

Lay many dreams nurtured & kindled.

She believed she could bring change,

She knew she’d tread her own path

And within the realms of the physical world,

She believed that she’d find her own place.

The world laughed when she told them of her dreams,

Reminded her of her vices,

Discouraged, Exploited, even humiliated her.

But alas, they failed miserably

For within her softness, lay nerves of steel.

Every wall they created, she climbed over

Every glass ceiling they made, she broke away

To them she never spoke a word,

But with all she did, nor could they.

She stood above them all,

An example, an inspiration, a story of all her wins,

And when someone asked her where she found the strength,

She smiled and said ‘It comes from within’.

They’ll come and tell you’ll never do it

They’ll try to break you all apart

But the one thing that always must stay lit, ‘

Is the flame of hope, within the heart.”