Untitled text from an unnamed woman

A successful woman is the most vulnerable. There will be many people to tell her that she is talented, that she is strong and determined. There will be people to call her More »

The impotence of being young and being old

There is nothing called too much loneliness. Either you are alone, ruminating on the chances of a possibility, any possibility, of breaking that immovable reverie; or you’re lonely, staring into empty chasms More »

Of Faby and his father Interview with Director K. Sreekkuttan

The fate of José Arcadio Buendía in Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude, who, with only his astronomical calculations found out that the earth was round, would still be a bit painful. More »

Slumdogs and other insignificant humans

A man stands in the shadows in an unknown alleyway in an unknown street in a known city. His face cannot be read, but his face is tired. He wipes the sweat More »

The Lighter Side of the Fantasy Maker: Interview with writer Robert Taylor

Reading Robert Taylor’s stories are like watching a thriller movie. Surprises comes out when you least expect them, and then they push you into the deep, deep voids of fantasy. Yes, he More »

Saintly cargoes in sailing coffins

The creases on the forehead aren’t creases. They’re the defined gifts of knowledge. They’re the lifelines of experience, and one should stand on tiptoes to see them. And when one’s carried by More »

The Science of Mischief

There would be few children who haven’t read George Marvellous Medicine. And there would be fewer still who haven’t heard about its author, Roald Dahl. His books have showed both young and More »

Diplomacy befitting enmity

Taking the newspaper and reading it completely shocked me today. My eyes glued themselves to one corner of the paper, wherein lay the source of astonishment. In a diplomatic, almost balanced tone More »

 

OUR KIDS July 2015

Capture

OUR KIDS – June 2015.Vol.3,Issue.2

Our Kids

OUR KIDS – June 2015.Vol.3,Issue.2OUR KIDS – June 2015.Vol.3,Issue.2

 

Untitled text from an unnamed woman

A successful woman is the most vulnerable. There will be many people to tell her that she is talented, that she is strong and determined. There will be people to call her independent and secure. But there will be no one to tell her that she is beautiful.

Everyone admires a successful woman, but nobody wants her. The kind of woman a man desires should be vulnerable, fragile; she should be innocent and shy. She should be strong and patient, but at the same time she should have spirit and an abstract womanliness, an articulate mystique  that makes her appealing, that makes her look like magic to the man who loves her.

And sadly, that woman of infinite magic and madness will never be me. So wouldn’t hundreds of other girls like me, who aspire for more than what is good for her. She will never grow to be extraordinary as a woman. They will call her a prodigy, a good boss, a warm friend who gives you good advice. They will call her a milestone in her career, a role-model in her society and even if she wants to or not, she will become successful, because that’s what she is cut out to be. And as futile as it is for her to control the course of her destiny, she will sit as maidens in shelves, a replica of priceless artifacts in a palace of glass. Everyone fears to touch her, yet they revel in her worth. They are pieces of art that are too expensive to be bought, fit enough only to be admired in passing by pleasant passers-by in a social museum. Everybody is awed, but nobody is mad enough to crave it like an obsessed lover. Nobody sends them roses with blood rimmed pink ribbons. There will be no love notes with a scrawl they can keep forever. No past love keeps her blue shawl with their subtle scents. But of course, there will be pleasant dinners in chic restaurants, a holiday in an exotic island, but never memories that stay fresh and lovely long enough that they sting. After that first date, after that moment when the strong, less-feminine self is revealed, everyone turns on their heels and run. The sophisticated woman hardly has any charm. Nobody loves her.

The impotence of being young and being old

There is nothing called too much loneliness. Either you are alone, ruminating on the chances of a possibility, any possibility, of breaking that immovable reverie; or you’re lonely, staring into empty chasms of emptiness, solitary disillusionment and an inevitable vertigo as you climb down the stairs. Meet my grandmother, who haunts my grandpa’s ghost for having left her to live vacuous, long years in a self-made asylum, her bubble of immobility, a timeless cage where nobody and nothing is welcome, nothing moves and she counts time with the impatience of a man waiting his trial.

Fisherwoman

I see her every morning on her way to business

Printed cloth around her legs, a red blouse

Carrying her basket of old fish, listless

She is, listless. She is fisherwoman-

Listless until her first fish has gone away.

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