Tag Archives: Institute of English

OUR KIDS July 2015


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.

Readers in an Adult’s World: Laments of a Teenager

Week after week, I watch out for the special days when the newspaper boy throws in the ‘special’ Hindu- Melange and Metroplus- two supplements I crave with the curiosity of a ten year old. And promptly, I receive my share of Khyrunissa, and deeply miss Krish’s Ashok’s exceptionally crafted Armchair with a View, that not so long ago my teacher introduced me to during a Theory of Knowledge lesson in school.

However, nearly always I sit back a little disappointed, having read Confessions of an Anonymous woman, or the ranting of authors angered at rising onion prices, of wacky children and inconsiderate husbands, cultural issues, political mess…all problems of an adults world- to be read and digested and ruminated by the polite glass-clad uncles and aunties sitting beside freshly brewed filter coffee on the weekends.

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