tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70268217768047202132024-03-10T06:46:12.068+04:00Bewitched by WordsA place where I dream and let my fingers do the talking...Aathirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05048064214070902294noreply@blogger.comBlogger375125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026821776804720213.post-30434222127363249592020-02-18T11:27:00.002+04:002020-02-18T11:27:40.370+04:00Mom shaming is a thing with two horns and a tail<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Ever since I became a Mom I have been judged for my choices. Not that the judging hasn't happened earlier, but I kept my mouth firmly shut rather than explain my choices out loud to people who thought it was fine to poke their noses in my personal stuff and had no idea what the term <i>boundaries </i>meant. Now I do realize that Mom shaming is a thing. Yeah, mothers are judged for their choices. All the time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Going back to work so soon after the baby is born? How could you be so cruel?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Oh, you are a stay-at-home Mom? Don't you feel bad for not earning an income than slog around all day in your pajamas watching your kids? Is this really the kind of example you want to be setting your kids?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Bottle feeding? Why would you do that! Formula is the devil's food. No loving mother should subject her kids to anything that comes from other than her own breast. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>Still breast feeding? When do you plan to stop? Is it really necessary to take out your breast as soon as your child cries? Why don't you try pacifying him/her?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I mean, really? Don't even get me started on the questions that have come my way. I can go on forever. How a mother brings up her kids is her own choice! There is no need to be nosy or overtly curious. If she chose to be a mom, then she most certainly knows what her baby wants or needs. And she definitely needs no judging from others in addition to the mammoth task of bringing up her children.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I thought the questions would stop once the babies turn into toddlers. But hell no, if anything they seemed to have gotten more and more personal and even outright rage as to how dare I allow my kid to throw a tantrum in public! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We all have our own ways of parenting. What works for me may not work for someone else. Just like each kid is unique in his or her own way, there is no <i>one size fits all</i> formula that work. There is no right or wrong way. In my case, I let my kids get it out before I can actually get them to calm down. My method of parenting is trial and error. I make mistakes. I watch, I learn, I grow. </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">And if that makes me a bad mom, so be it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But the sad thing is that a lot of the judging comes from other women who are most often mothers themselves. We all know that underneath the polished facade, there is a mother who's waiting to crack. Who binges on chocolate when her kids are asleep and let's face it, who feels guilty for yelling at her kids while at home. But if you have it all under control, if your kids are tiny angels, good for you. That person is unfortunately not me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There is no such thing as a perfect mother! One who feeds her kids organic food, never loses her temper when the said kids refuse to eat it and still has not a hair out of place and never, ever loses her cool. The day you can show me a perfect mother is the day I can show you an unicorn, trust me on this. We all have our good days and not so good days when we exist on cups of coffee and couple of hours of sleep, if you're lucky, that is. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Instead of judging, how about trying to understand what the other mothers may or may not be going through? She may be having a child who's not like yours or she may be struggling with her own issues or maybe she's just having a bad day. You don't have to help but at least keep your opinions to yourself instead of going over and offer unsolicited advice when not asked. Because, if she wants help, she will ask. Until then, quit with the mom shaming. Please. </span></div>
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Aathirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05048064214070902294noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026821776804720213.post-14145114539613721452020-02-10T09:12:00.001+04:002020-02-10T09:12:36.278+04:00In the search for Love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkgaesOCpWBCOo0UpZK184b8PijI5laVYrxGu-WJ29oXKoWl9jb1kTlgzKV-Y5i5_pR9Bl9Ba42IGlkbM_jOlsUqNrfn9N0vTKVEZWQklUftqyiXsvbqjQe_dKWMjKR8fbTg38oms720M/s1600/AAAABRuNF-eeB6HyYc9HyBFyR4pmbv5ZAcDyOsLM-Cu7y2DkgbEdVBJfXnsIZ9j_Qy8I6byiIxtUmPD5koRY63jkp2Ju1mF-ZD0ZEAAp7LWcF0V-ure1FNmRcNnFVKfx0Q.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="597" data-original-width="426" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkgaesOCpWBCOo0UpZK184b8PijI5laVYrxGu-WJ29oXKoWl9jb1kTlgzKV-Y5i5_pR9Bl9Ba42IGlkbM_jOlsUqNrfn9N0vTKVEZWQklUftqyiXsvbqjQe_dKWMjKR8fbTg38oms720M/s320/AAAABRuNF-eeB6HyYc9HyBFyR4pmbv5ZAcDyOsLM-Cu7y2DkgbEdVBJfXnsIZ9j_Qy8I6byiIxtUmPD5koRY63jkp2Ju1mF-ZD0ZEAAp7LWcF0V-ure1FNmRcNnFVKfx0Q.jpg" width="228" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sometime last year I happened to read an Unsuitable boy, the autobiography by Karan Johar. It was as entertaining as the man's movies. Karan has written about his movie background and how he came into Bollywood, about how he was often ridiculed as a child and of how it didn't stop him from being the person he is today. There have been people who loved the book and some who didn't but I for one, did enjoy the book to a great extent, especially the frankness with which he writes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Though I'm not a huge fan of his movies, I think we can all agree that he makes a good job of keeping the audience entertained. He brings home all the bling. I haven't watched his show Koffee with Karan but when his newly launched show on Netflix came up, I thought to give it a watch. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In Karan's own words, he's the nosy aunty we meet at weddings who wants to know everything happening in your life. In this show, he picks and chooses six singletons and helps them in their quest for love. All the six people come with their own baggage and insecurities and with the help of some of his celebrity friends and the expert help of a fashion designer and a hair and makeup artist, Karan manages to make them be the 'best version of themselves'. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The show, just like his movies has a bit of everything from drama to disasters to finally, romance. So if you are a fan of him, then the show is a must watch. But even if you aren't, give it a go if you have that romantic bone in your body. Because the show will keep you engaged throughout and there are some endearing moments that I personally liked in some of the episodes. If you do decide to watch it, do let me know your thoughts. </span></div>
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Aathirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05048064214070902294noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026821776804720213.post-59326969210535461442019-09-15T14:07:00.003+04:002019-09-15T14:07:49.989+04:00After a break<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The past couple of years have been crazy for me. Even when I thought I would make the time to write, I simply couldn’t do it. 2019 has been a good year to me. I managed to get Gouri published (finally!), thanks to a very persistent friend :) It is available as an ebook on kindle on Amazon in case you want to read it. </div>
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Motherhood has been keeping me on my toes and writing took a back seat. I did, however, manage to read quite a few good books, reviews of which I shall try to post here. I know the blog has been long neglected and this time, hopefully, I can show it some more love. It has seen me through some of the toughest days of my life and most importantly, it’s home. So, that’s about me. Till next time! </div>
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Aathirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05048064214070902294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026821776804720213.post-65486386657936427232018-07-11T19:21:00.000+04:002018-07-11T19:24:23.746+04:00The year that was 2017<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">2017 has been quite the year for me. Yes, I have been MIA here and on many other platforms due to a long list of personal reasons. The first of which is motherhood :) I have been blessed with two twin tornadoes, my tinies - a baby boy and a baby girl :) :) They are almost one and a half now and my hands have been full all this while. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">This post is long pending and I owe it to you, dear reader and the blog that has been home all this while, as to where I was. I shall write more frequently as this is something that has been missed greatly. Because this is who I am. So, if you are making the time to read, let me just say thank you. It means a lot. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Almost two years of not writing or blogging and I'm kind of skeptical if I still have my writing mojo with me. I still hope I do. I'm back for good and there shall be more stories from my end. So, till next time...</span></div>
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Aathirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05048064214070902294noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026821776804720213.post-12269953203222865622016-12-22T10:20:00.000+04:002017-01-02T11:20:05.373+04:00A Gift of Love - IGP.com<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Who doesn't love receiving gifts? Be it on special occasions like your birthday, anniversary, Christmas or New Year, a gift is sure to put a smile on not just the receiver's face but the giver's as well. And the best thing about gifts is that you need not even wait for an occasion to give it. I have always loved the surprise element and gifts that arrive impromptu on my door step definitely tops my list.</div>
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When I came across <a href="https://www.igp.com/">Indian Gifts Portal</a>, one of India's largest online gifts store, I was curious. Ordering a gift online without the hassle of a normal shopping experience, it offers a wide variety of gifts right from cakes, flowers, jewelry, electronic items etc. They also offer personalized gifts, a little something extra to make that special person, feel extra special. Why not surprise your Mom, Dad or friend? Do check them out for more gifting options. The prices are reasonable and most offer free shipping. There is something to be found for everyone, for all ages and occasions. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0U3uhnAMSNvXI4bBt3PlAIxCvFOoKmGsd2EdnQkzbbCFUeWL7JfsZoHHBfVRF9X1jBShxigfNhYfS7dk2nWGzJ2nZ7KHPWSpStm7ojNtMW8E-B9tGPXjfaZHgV0wWHMcOdkJ_vP2Qu30/s1600/Untitled.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="340" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0U3uhnAMSNvXI4bBt3PlAIxCvFOoKmGsd2EdnQkzbbCFUeWL7JfsZoHHBfVRF9X1jBShxigfNhYfS7dk2nWGzJ2nZ7KHPWSpStm7ojNtMW8E-B9tGPXjfaZHgV0wWHMcOdkJ_vP2Qu30/s640/Untitled.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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They also ship internationally (USA, UK, Australia, Canada etc) and even have same day delivery network to over 300 cities in India. Forgot a loved one's birthday? Fret not, browse through the innumerable gift ideas available on their website and you are bound to come across something that will make them feel happy. There are also midnight delivery gifts which include an immense selection of cakes and beautiful flowers, leaving you spoilt for choice. </div>
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Here is a picture of the <a href="https://www.igp.com/butterscotch-cakes">butterscotch cake</a> that I ordered via their website. It was delivered on the date as I requested. The cake was fresh, rich and moist, a gift from me to me :) Brownie points for the sheer decadence. Surely, one can indulge oneself! Another point worth mentioning is the customer service which is fast and excellent, helping you get through any glitches smoothly, should you face any. <a href="https://www.igp.com/">IGP</a> is a website that I wouldn't hesitate to recommend; my experience with them has been a fulfilling one. Do let me know about your experience if you decide to shop with them.</div>
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Aathirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05048064214070902294noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026821776804720213.post-79770893762829824202016-12-14T21:38:00.001+04:002016-12-14T21:44:27.811+04:00I want to be...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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...the froth of cream on your upper lip as you take that first sip of coffee.<br />
...the tiny scar hidden behind your watch on the inside of your left hand.<br />
...the mist from your breath that clouds the window, deep with longing.<br />
...the first whiff of petrichor you inhale as it rains.<br />
...the warmth of your faded blanket on your ice cold toes.<br />
...the well thumbed page of your favorite book of poetry.<br />
...the words that you bleed on to a page, black against white.<br />
...the wind whipping against your face on a hill top.<br />
...all this and so much more.<br />
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I want to be the love you deserve. Just let me.<br />
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Aathirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05048064214070902294noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026821776804720213.post-17006102541894384192016-12-03T16:59:00.000+04:002016-12-03T17:03:04.040+04:00Winter Musings <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The past couple of days I woke up to a beautiful sight. Mist covered greenery through my window. Definitely one of the perks of staying in a flat are the gorgeous views that greet you from your balcony or windows, if you're lucky. Like the most of us, I'm guilty of reaching for the mobile even before opening my eyes. Instead of doing that, I tried listening to the sounds from around as I woke up today morning. As cliched as it may sound, the chirping of birds is one of the best sounds to wake up to. </div>
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The year is coming to an end with just a month to go. It's raining outside as I write this. December couldn't have started off on a better note. Being a bibliophile, one of the first things that comes to my mind when I think of December is <i>A Christmas Carol</i>. Who can forget the infamous Scrooge and his ghosts created by Dickens? Another happy memory is singing Christmas carols along with friends in the school choir group. Hanging huge paper stars on your porch was a much awaited event too. </div>
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Experiencing a white Christmas is one of the things on the bucket list. That's what happens as a result of watching too many Hollywood movies during Christmas time, I guess. It gives you a lot of winter goals :) So, tell me, what are your favorite Christmas memories? </div>
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Aathirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05048064214070902294noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026821776804720213.post-66570692259299305172016-11-24T17:39:00.000+04:002016-11-24T17:40:33.267+04:00Thankful Thursday #1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
Dear You,<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I'm a firm believer that we meet people for a reason. Sometimes, quite simply they are lessons. Other times, if you are lucky enough, you find companions for life. You are one such person for me. We started out as friends and now you are so much more. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I'm not going to bore you with the details, but I'm grateful for the patience you have shown me over the years. For not telling me<i> I told you so</i>, for resisting that urge when I went ahead and made my own mistakes. For listening to me rant for hours, crying and tearing my hair out in the process. Mostly, I'm thankful that you are just there for me. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
You have made me see what I have missed, focusing too much on the grays and not enough on the colors. Making me realize that there are very few things that a long bath and a good sleep won't fix. For your unending optimism and positivity that shines through in your words, for the amazing person you are, <i>thank you</i>! I'm not going to tag you here and turn this into another cheesy post. You know who you are :)</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
All my love, </div>
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Aathirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05048064214070902294noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026821776804720213.post-82273562003852677842016-11-07T10:52:00.000+04:002016-11-07T10:52:47.171+04:00Truth or Truth?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Lies. More and more of it. Like a deck made of cards. Hiding the truth. Always. Do we lie to protect ourselves and the ones we love? Or is it because it's easier than telling the truth? The truth that you know is going to hurt? </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The drafts folder of your inbox, however, tells a different story. Unsent mail overflowing. The ones that refrained you from hitting that send button. Is it because some people simply do not deserve to know your truth? But there it nestles, among spam mail and meaningless correspondence. All that you have told but not been heard. </div>
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<br /></div>
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You don't hit the send button. <i>Not yet</i>, a voice whispers in your head. But nor do you have the heart to delete it. Someday, maybe. Nobody said that speaking the truth would be easy. It's got to be done, all the same. Even if it means standing alone. </div>
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Aathirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05048064214070902294noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026821776804720213.post-79926250362152471972016-10-21T15:39:00.001+04:002016-10-21T15:39:07.525+04:00Battlefield<br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvM1y5F2HqnICv_mZpSU9DiGQptJR57VYSK57YujUoeL2n3gjqgaXyOlVDy3JNqeHCh9H1_PYyaiwbfYVawSL13kMwpoBHYiORsw4M8bq0yG8LT-MPJOy90wcBkNP5O0WHpQq84Bv7loU/s640/blogger-image--1183748618.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvM1y5F2HqnICv_mZpSU9DiGQptJR57VYSK57YujUoeL2n3gjqgaXyOlVDy3JNqeHCh9H1_PYyaiwbfYVawSL13kMwpoBHYiORsw4M8bq0yG8LT-MPJOy90wcBkNP5O0WHpQq84Bv7loU/s640/blogger-image--1183748618.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Your mouth tastes like regret and pain</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">In your eyes I see the scars that escaped your body </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I see you flinch when I hold you </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Don't you know all I want is to soothe your pain </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">But I can't protect you from the world </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Your battles are your own, just like mine </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Imperfectly, we will fit together someday, like a jigsaw </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Till then I wait for you</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Patiently, impatiently...</div></div>Aathirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05048064214070902294noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026821776804720213.post-22602282755839669612016-09-28T09:51:00.001+04:002016-09-28T09:51:55.316+04:00Soaked Thoughts<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf2ZbGdlLBDH49Bd7sag7851e3BiS1duXWtaHrUTrHncPiE2BuYsUfMQ_1m0ASBzsVhNex-mTN05LC4H45m9wfCzeFqCdL1G4sUE6EKvnq3P2H6Tfp3xPphyphenhyphenwn0vGls4VqqqW-atSKIfQ/s640/blogger-image--732393725.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf2ZbGdlLBDH49Bd7sag7851e3BiS1duXWtaHrUTrHncPiE2BuYsUfMQ_1m0ASBzsVhNex-mTN05LC4H45m9wfCzeFqCdL1G4sUE6EKvnq3P2H6Tfp3xPphyphenhyphenwn0vGls4VqqqW-atSKIfQ/s640/blogger-image--732393725.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Poetry was the language we conversed in </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Neruda jostled with Plath and Tagore </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Debates I secretly enjoyed</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">And frosty nights were imbued with </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The warmth of conversations and hot chocolate </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Goodbyes were never said </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">All that was left was silence </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">As steely as the ripping of pages</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">From a much cherished book </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Today I stand drenched in rain </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Waiting for a bus that would probably never come </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Drenched to the bone, chilled to my soul </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">How much longer, I wonder </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Before I give up and go back home... </div></div>Aathirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05048064214070902294noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026821776804720213.post-26941192004185943412016-09-26T17:20:00.001+04:002016-09-26T17:20:20.448+04:00Delusion<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1vlUuV_HRdhCrWj_nFVPLYmIJVJyhjXZC_j6CqS-lhl_CvC8CozBFSmqf27-QQp5khSH394jyliAs2-OnBphYTzWSeaDxmw2z45VydG9XWMoefDFdhkz5_e8rL5aYqW7t6VRsjZaZ3Rs/s640/blogger-image--211070656.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1vlUuV_HRdhCrWj_nFVPLYmIJVJyhjXZC_j6CqS-lhl_CvC8CozBFSmqf27-QQp5khSH394jyliAs2-OnBphYTzWSeaDxmw2z45VydG9XWMoefDFdhkz5_e8rL5aYqW7t6VRsjZaZ3Rs/s640/blogger-image--211070656.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Am I not the longing that fills your nights </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The cigarette smoke that floats in the air? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The half drunk glass of whisky laced with regret </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Am I not in the invisible lines traced on the counter </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">By your fingertips </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Is it not my name that escapes your lips?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Or in the music notes that drift in the background </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The memories that play hide and seek</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">In the deepest corners of your mind </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Or the lone droplets on your rain spattered windows </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Was it ever about me? Was any of it?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Or maybe I'm simply being delusional...</div></div>Aathirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05048064214070902294noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026821776804720213.post-50520197351047509242016-09-05T17:35:00.001+04:002016-09-05T19:00:57.262+04:00Colors of Sunset<div><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid6p_tTzZm9Cqmm0M1BkmAq5naWmV3lEmdqHFvmkVPpxQ9GkVWOldvIm8LXWJAQdGHeOiBjyaaL25l6I0oSRPfUjH_K1FsT7Uq1dtqOW6RhZPLeDzTAZv16os9_qck7qEifwILfW6sGmk/s640/blogger-image-284366171.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid6p_tTzZm9Cqmm0M1BkmAq5naWmV3lEmdqHFvmkVPpxQ9GkVWOldvIm8LXWJAQdGHeOiBjyaaL25l6I0oSRPfUjH_K1FsT7Uq1dtqOW6RhZPLeDzTAZv16os9_qck7qEifwILfW6sGmk/s640/blogger-image-284366171.jpg"></a></div><br></i></div><i><div><i><br></i></div>As a little girl, my favorite kind of sunset were the orange ones. A golden globe of sun sinking into the blue sea. </i><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>When I grew up and stepped into my teens, I loved the pink tinted ones. It was the color of my blushing cheeks, he said. </i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>But now, the ones that I crave the most are the bright yellow ones with a splash of fiery red. It reminds me of your smile, the kind that melts my insides, oozing warmth into my heart that I inevitably end up comparing to the molten chocolate lava cake I had. The kind that always reminds me of home. </i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>If I could capture your love into a single frame, this would be it, in all the myriad colors of sunset times infinity, bursting into my life, painting the vivid hues onto my skin. Sometimes, I wish you would see yourself through my eyes, just to know how very special you are to me. And someday, we shall watch the colors of sunset blend in, together. </i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div>P.S. Overwhelmed with the love you all have showered on me on my last post. Thank you! Means the world to me :)</div>Aathirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05048064214070902294noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026821776804720213.post-33716876240494927472016-08-27T20:58:00.001+04:002016-08-28T18:06:13.490+04:00How I almost stopped writing<div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvEzklkaFxNcCnOSkl5z7Jz7jZ27NFQRWD_84B4d5mFlvE0f8HnUMTIfC2DDPbWANOIhiMHbmO3NMJ86gjz3nLY5oW-lTIQM-syyHYao76muL3JKmWIUKD7zgIddPpVIfOYAayZJ8khcc/s640/blogger-image-1804707394.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvEzklkaFxNcCnOSkl5z7Jz7jZ27NFQRWD_84B4d5mFlvE0f8HnUMTIfC2DDPbWANOIhiMHbmO3NMJ86gjz3nLY5oW-lTIQM-syyHYao76muL3JKmWIUKD7zgIddPpVIfOYAayZJ8khcc/s640/blogger-image-1804707394.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div>Of late, I don't feel the urge to pick up my pen like before. It makes me think, have I really lost it? The one thing that I love more than anything else in this world, the one thing that kept me going all these years? I don't know. I like to think not. I prefer to believe that writing has not abandoned me completely. How can something that's a part of you be taken away?<div><br></div><div>I took to writing when I was going through one of the lowest phases of my life. Writing healed me, it was my therapy and I made some life long friends along the way. Some of whom are still there with me and some had to leave or I had to let them go. But the one thing that gave me hope through all of the curveballs that life threw my way was writing. I lost myself in the world of words. </div><div><br></div><div>Though there have been days I have gone without writing a word, when I always came back, it felt right like home. Even now, there's a little nudge inside me to keep writing, to keep creating. I haven't been a prompt blogger, I haven't been replying to comments and I'm extremely sorry for all that. But thanks so much for having faith in me. </div><div><br></div><div>It's been a tough time for me and as things get better, I hope to write more. To do justice to all the stories in my head. It would be easier to give up, shut down this blog, an idea that I have been toying with. But that would simply make me a coward, to shut down my voice for fear of being judged. I want to write, to speak what's on my mind, just like I used to. And even if I don't succeed, I'm definitely not going to stop trying. I owe it to myself, to the words that I have been gifted with, to the people who had faith in me even when I didn't. It took me a while to realize it,<i> life may change but somethings are forever...</i></div>Aathirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05048064214070902294noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026821776804720213.post-74002074913084926452016-08-24T20:44:00.001+04:002016-08-24T20:44:04.421+04:00Reunited<br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-whLWQeAdT2gHugD_hnPpMRc1xvgpB1FQx9sMMZchFMF0-hH6glvdsPFRSk-rKlM6_9AFll_-55loEe94ErrOTysNuxn6veViloOtDO46MEs5vXtgx8m4zTUwBfhfqCz2GhHwIWWp83I/s640/blogger-image--710014770.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-whLWQeAdT2gHugD_hnPpMRc1xvgpB1FQx9sMMZchFMF0-hH6glvdsPFRSk-rKlM6_9AFll_-55loEe94ErrOTysNuxn6veViloOtDO46MEs5vXtgx8m4zTUwBfhfqCz2GhHwIWWp83I/s640/blogger-image--710014770.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">It starts with a kiss, the kind that takes your breath away. The deliciousness of the surprise, the taste of your lover's lips. Peppermint and spice. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>It's been far too long. </i>I want to cry out but I don't. It dies inside my throat and I concentrate on relishing the little time that we have. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">So much to say, so much to catch up on. Never before have we been parted so long. My first love, my savior. Welcome back, <i>Words. </i>I have missed you so. More than I can say, more than you will ever know...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">P.S. Howdy? I missed you all! </div>Aathirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05048064214070902294noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026821776804720213.post-38006002290331230452016-06-30T12:49:00.000+04:002016-06-30T13:01:10.063+04:00Hiraeth<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
How are you?<br />
<i style="text-align: justify;"><br /></i>
<i style="text-align: justify;">Your message blinks on my mobile screen. How am I? That has been a question that I have been asking myself of late. Couple of years back, you wouldn't have felt the need to ask me that, you would know how I was just by looking into my eyes. You would have been by my side and not on the other side of my screen.</i><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>After all, we <strike>are</strike> were best friends. You know of all the times Hagrid made me cry, you grumbled when you had to tag along with me on my book shopping sprees. I was the first one you dissected your favorite movies with. 'Blue is the warmest color' kept us awake talking about relationships and love for hours. </i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>Butterscotch was your flavor, chocolate was mine. You always knew how rainy days made me write bad, sappy poems. But life as we know it, changes. You got married, moved across oceans and countries to start a new life while I stayed behind. Our friendship was uncomplicated, untainted by love. </i></div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>Today, your display picture shows you kissing your new born daughter. She is cute, your little one. I can see that she will grow up to be like you. And in another, I see you looking at her fondly, that look that was reserved only for me. It now belongs to someone else. </i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>The day you left, you took a part of me with you. Inside my chest is a scooped out hollow where you used to be. I have been seeing someone for the past few months, but I know that he will leave soon when he sees the blankness behind my eyes. Some things and people can never be replaced. Drifting apart was only natural. Was it your fault or mine? Or why don't we take the easier route and blame it on destiny? </i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>You will never know about the dark nights I spent battling my demons, that rainy nights scare the hell out of me now and that writing love poems is a thing of the past, just like you. I may never get to hear from you about those sleepless nights and the joy of that first smile. Likes on your vacation pictures, a comment once in a while on my status updates, that's what we have turned out to be. </i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
I'm fine, I reply. And you?<br />
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Aathirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05048064214070902294noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026821776804720213.post-35155658806360185022016-06-13T17:43:00.000+04:002016-06-13T17:59:42.495+04:00The Stalker <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Aditi tried to ignore the heaviness inside her as she got dressed for the party. The text from Vivek was read, but not deleted. He wanted a break, that's what he had told her, that they were going too fast and he wanted time to think things over. <i>The jerk.</i> He didn't even have the guts to say it to her face. A text was all that he had sent. </div>
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<i>I hope we can continue being friends. </i></div>
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How very convenient for him. She felt the hidden rage bubbling over, threatening to spill. She took her phone and deleted all the messages from him. Next she opened all her social media accounts and blocked him there too. He was just like the rest, it was her foolishness to think that he would be any different. He too had used her, and when he had his share of fun, she was discarded, unwanted, an afterthought. </div>
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<i>Never again</i>, Aditi swore under her breath. She was done with men. She didn't feel like going out, not in her current state of mind. But she knew what would happen if she were to spend the night in. There would be pizza and binge watching sessions of one of her favorite TV shows. And then, there would be tears and she would go to sleep in her pajamas, weeping on the couch. </div>
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Not tonight. She had a party to get to. One that she wasn't interested in going to in the first place. Two days back, she had made plans to spend it at home with Vivek, just the both of them. <i>Well, look how well that turned out.</i> No more plans either, she would go where life took her. She might as well make an effort and spend it with people and party music around her. </div>
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The red dress she chose had a plunging neckline and the necklace she wore lay against her bare skin, the heart shaped pendent kissing her there. She dusted the bronzer on her skin, highlighting her features. The bronzer shimmered in the dull light as she turned. Her waist length hair lay in cascading waves on her back, the deep red lipstick was applied to perfection. Grabbing her purse and stepping into her six inch heels, she finally felt ready, a little like her old self.</div>
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The night breeze was cool and the traffic on the road that would normally have bothered her, was tonight oddly soothing in its familiar honks and noises. The party was in full blast as Aditi stepped inside. The music hit her head on in full force, and she allowed to be enfolded into its embrace, desperate to forget, eager to move forward. She saw a few friends and joined them, swaying to the music. It was too loud to talk and she was glad, the last thing she wanted was to answer awkward questions about Vivek.</div>
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After what felt like hours, but was probably just a few minutes, she felt the pain on her feet as a result of dancing in her too high heels. She made her way to the bar, to catch her breath and order a drink. Maybe it was the muted silence that greeted her in this corner of the pub, the sounds of the party seemed to fade away, or maybe it was her feelings that were finally catching up on her, she felt the sharp sting of tears. Closing her eyes, she tried to brush it away, aware that the mascara would run down her cheeks, giving her away. </div>
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And all of a sudden, Aditi felt claustrophobic, the walls seemed to close in on her, her chest tightened, her breathing turned ragged. Her hands held on to the bar counter as she closed her eyes and tried to take deep breaths. </div>
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<i>One, two, three. Breathe in, breathe out. </i><br />
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This was what usually helped when she had one of these panic attacks. She had managed to keep it hidden from the world till now, allowing her walls to come down only when she was alone. They were increasing in frequency with each day, slackening her grip on reality. Her sweaty palms and labored breathing must have given her away, for the bartender was looking at her with concern etched on his face. She gave a feeble smile to show that she was all right and he turned back to mixing drinks with a wary look. He must be used to all sort of weirdos by now, she mused silently. </div>
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She sipped the virgin margarita that she had been nursing for a while, feeling the sensation returning to her limbs when the same bartender pushed another one towards her. </div>
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"I'm sorry, there must be a mistake. I did not order this," Aditi told him. </div>
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"Oh, this one is already paid for. By the gentleman," he said with a slight nod of his head towards the far end. </div>
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In the velvety darkness, it was next to impossible to see his face. All that she caught sight of was a towering silhouette that walked away, not even glancing her way to gauge her reaction. Who was he? Was he simply looking for a girl to pick up, to have fun with for the night? But if he was, why did he leave? </div>
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Feeling puzzled, she turned back to the glass that the bartender had pushed across, and that was when she saw the note on the paper napkin, beneath it. The words written in some kind of marker, had started bleeding across, merging with the drops of condensation that slipped from the glass and onto the napkin. </div>
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<i>No man is worth those tears, Beautiful. No one.</i> </div>
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Was this some kind of joke? Or did she really look that pathetic? Aditi had prided herself on managing to hide her feelings from the rest of the world all this while. Crumbling the tissue and taking a final sip from her drink, she resumed to the dance floor, unaware of the turn of events that her life was to take from that night. </div>
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<i>... to be continued. </i></div>
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Aathirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05048064214070902294noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026821776804720213.post-24840163257788038242016-05-25T06:14:00.001+04:002016-06-08T20:23:18.132+04:00Childhood sweetheart<div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-zGiQaRBU62S04YDHs34H44yRWhTsnwKgK8DpBZFBj-fHCiivT1k0EM_gx1LTaVPXM-agskdrSb9Q7Ft66EnUM8cnJjthJiNkuFbwHR9f1FrSEJw3PX-rdlBa07c157rXCd7N8XTIdyA/s640/blogger-image--1071814943.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-zGiQaRBU62S04YDHs34H44yRWhTsnwKgK8DpBZFBj-fHCiivT1k0EM_gx1LTaVPXM-agskdrSb9Q7Ft66EnUM8cnJjthJiNkuFbwHR9f1FrSEJw3PX-rdlBa07c157rXCd7N8XTIdyA/s640/blogger-image--1071814943.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div>I have seen you as a wobbly kneed boy<div>As you ran behind me pulling my pigtails </div><div>Throwing little stones far into the middle of the pond </div><div>Seen you climb trees, taught me to ride my bicycle </div><div><br></div><div>Skipping classes together, muffled giggles</div><div>Sharing lunch boxes, snatching away what was already yours </div><div>But somewhere in the middle, we lost each other </div><div>I moved across cities, you stayed behind </div><div><br></div><div>The next time we saw each other, the boy had gone </div><div>In place was a man, with a deep voice and scruffy voice</div><div>I felt intimidated, distant </div><div>Drifting apart was only natural, hurting was all the more so </div><div><br></div><div>Today once again, you are there by my side </div><div>Rushing in when I needed you the most </div><div>Holding my hands, tightening your grip</div><div>Once again, I saw a man in you </div><div>And no, it wasn't love, it was kindness that drew me back to you </div><div><br></div><div>Not just for me, but for the whole world </div><div>Your ability to empathize with others </div><div>Feeling their pain, making it yours </div><div>As for love, it would come later</div><div><br></div><div>Creeping in between phone conversations </div><div>And late night strolls </div><div>Through the books exchanged </div><div>A new story that I had begun to write, but the beginning always remains the same</div><div>A childhood sweetheart... </div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Aathirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05048064214070902294noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026821776804720213.post-7362054879755205912016-05-23T20:53:00.000+04:002016-05-23T20:53:22.784+04:00The woman who worshiped Serpents <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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She was the woman who worshiped serpents. Some called her a witch who practiced dark magic. Others claimed to have seen her walking naked near the serpent shrine some nights. I had seen her only from far, she looked the same now and many years earlier when I had seen her for the first time as a boy. Her skin was dusky, her flowing hair swayed with her hips, an unruly mass of oiled black curls. She was seen placing milk near the shrine at twilight, for the snakes to feed on. </div>
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Vasugi. The woman who held mystery in her eyes and the only one who enticed me with her charms. Dark magic? I do not know. Nor do I care. In many ways, we were both misfits, sticking out like a sore thumb in a small village of like minded souls. I was married for a short while, till my wife decided to run away with an old lover. They said it was because I couldn't give her a child. <i>Impotent</i>. The jibes continued to follow me wherever I went. </div>
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That night, I don't know what led me to her hut. Was it the rain that threatened to drown out my entire village that led me to seek shelter near the shrine? I like to call it destiny. There she was drenched to the bone, petting a snake that lay crawling by her feet. What happened next is still unclear to me. She got up and went, after one look at me, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Was she so arrogantly sure that I would follow her?</div>
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The inside of her hut was sparsely furnished. A tiny cot at the corner, some vessels in another. A few placed strategically to catch the rain water leaking from the thatched roof. She took my hands and placed it on her bare skin, skin that should have been cold, but was burning like fire. I traced the contours of her face, the hollow in her neck, her closed eyelids. I kissed the raindrops in her hair. </div>
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That night, in her, I lived. In her mystique depths, I finally felt like a man. A year later, she gave birth to my daughter. With her curls and my toothy grin. We still attract looks and hushed whispers wherever we go. But I was no longer termed impotent. There were others who said that the child was not mine, but a boon that was bestowed upon her by the snakes. As for her, she turned a deaf ear to them and continued to worship the serpents, the only God that she believed in. For me, she was no longer just the woman who worshiped serpents. She was the air that I breathed. </div>
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Aathirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05048064214070902294noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026821776804720213.post-45457789667402985882016-05-16T22:48:00.002+04:002016-05-16T22:49:18.432+04:00The writer who couldn't write<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>Words. They run around on the inside of her skull. Random. Haphazard. The moment she tries to string them together in a pearl necklace of a sentence, they scatter all around. Silently. Some run under her bed, some go into hiding behind her bookshelves. She knows there is no use going hunting, they were stubborn. Much like her. They would reveal themselves only if they felt like it. </i></div>
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<i>The cursor blinks on the blank screen. She feels claustrophobic, her hands grow clammy, slick with sweat. She shuts down her laptop and tries to drown herself in her books, in the faint hope of finding some form of inspiration. But again, they escape her, the words going above her head. </i></div>
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<i>Is this the writer's curse, she wonders, that when the muse disappears, along with some memories, her words would betray her as well and leave with him too? Or was it her punishment for loving too much too soon? For now, the only option that she has in order to make a semblance of her life is to go back to where it all started. To go back home...</i></div>
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Aathirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05048064214070902294noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026821776804720213.post-46291522840021421772016-05-16T22:23:00.002+04:002016-05-16T22:23:10.314+04:00Rendezvous <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>Her hair is shoulder length, she wears a backless lemon-yellow dress. He's dressed a little more formally, in a full sleeved shirt. Are they on a first date? But the way he cuddles up to her, gently caressing her already smooth hair, kissing the strands, tells me otherwise. </i></div>
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<i>He clicks her picture on his phone, finding a reason to scoot over closer to her to show it to her. Are they colleagues ? Having a fling? My mind rules out the possibility that they are married. </i></div>
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<i>I wonder what the future has in store for them both. Will he be the one to do the dumping later on? Will she be the broken one nursing a broken heart or vice versa? Will there be ego clashes and betrayals in the near future? Or will they perhaps have their happily ever after? </i></div>
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<i>And the hopeless romantic in me wins, over the realist. For once. </i></div>
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Aathirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05048064214070902294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026821776804720213.post-41631529545243736772016-04-30T16:31:00.000+04:002016-04-30T16:31:44.220+04:00Z - Zahra<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I see your condescending look </div>
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When you see I'm still childless at thirty</div>
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I see the pity in your eyes </div>
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When you are quick to judge </div>
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I may decide to have a child or I may not</div>
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I may be fighting my own battles </div>
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Or I may be childless by choice </div>
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But your opinion is the last thing I need</div>
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Next time you ply me with details of your offspring</div>
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Please know that I'm only being polite </div>
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When I listen to things that I can't relate to </div>
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That makes me want to stifle a yawn or two</div>
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Sure, it's a miracle of life that you created </div>
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That doesn't mean I have to agree </div>
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Rather than creating miniature versions of you</div>
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Make them better, best versions </div>
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Give them the freedom to think </div>
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Of their own without imposing your thoughts</div>
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Guide them, but don't stifle </div>
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What does she know, she's not a mother </div>
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I can almost hear you think </div>
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Well, it doesn't matter, does it?</div>
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Just like how I never asked for your opinion, </div>
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Yet you still gave me yours</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCgV8Nxzaf3E6MPaNpN5SMtJDFNtKJ1q5v2F4kBor1RNp1xT4hfUw7WQzsy8N4Ix8ofPdojLPSI5KjDXr7ClEaR84vs2VOXoKWUy4FPLWepFUNh-EvZaDThKMwKE1-0v_nD7y0tU_liE8/s1600/Z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCgV8Nxzaf3E6MPaNpN5SMtJDFNtKJ1q5v2F4kBor1RNp1xT4hfUw7WQzsy8N4Ix8ofPdojLPSI5KjDXr7ClEaR84vs2VOXoKWUy4FPLWepFUNh-EvZaDThKMwKE1-0v_nD7y0tU_liE8/s1600/Z.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', sans-serif; font-size: 14.3px; font-style: italic; line-height: 20.02px; text-align: justify;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', sans-serif; font-size: 14.3px; font-style: italic; line-height: 20.02px; text-align: justify;">Linking this post to the </span><a href="http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/" style="background-color: white; color: red; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', sans-serif; font-size: 14.3px; font-style: italic; line-height: 20.02px; text-align: justify; text-decoration: none;">A to Z Challenge</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', sans-serif; font-size: 14.3px; font-style: italic; line-height: 20.02px; text-align: justify;">.</span><br />
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Aathirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05048064214070902294noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026821776804720213.post-15767005914556030372016-04-29T00:00:00.000+04:002016-04-30T16:06:59.472+04:00Y - Yasmin<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://blog.intenzivno.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/02/hands2v2.jpg"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Image Source</span></a></td></tr>
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Her hands are wrinkled and gnarled. There are more streaks of white than grey in what's left of her thin hair. She walks with a slight stoop, a result of too long hours spent bent over the kitchen floor. </div>
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Each day, she waits, for a glimpse of a loved one. Every day she wakes up in hope, never giving up no matter how many days pass by alone in the old age home where she spends with other people her age. People who are discarded casually after use, when looking after them becomes a burden for the children that they love more their life. She does not hold any resentment in her heart, she knows they will come. </div>
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For me, she is beauty; she is strength. She is a warrior, a mother, a grandmother. She is the universe. For me, she is love. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpWZxN6q7uFUgvBHjInsyspUPzDbiEwq80WJSCTWtDi6tBpHpYg5kAkfgMfNJcpZebJ8lyI77YYsapO-f5DZ171pl2ccoKvMzJENDXbZ1ZU77whTRcmJidwAABNKPhN4I7vfxbP-Fp-OQ/s1600/Y.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpWZxN6q7uFUgvBHjInsyspUPzDbiEwq80WJSCTWtDi6tBpHpYg5kAkfgMfNJcpZebJ8lyI77YYsapO-f5DZ171pl2ccoKvMzJENDXbZ1ZU77whTRcmJidwAABNKPhN4I7vfxbP-Fp-OQ/s1600/Y.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.3px; font-style: italic; line-height: 20.02px;">Linking this post to the </span><a href="http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/" style="background-color: white; color: red; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', sans-serif; font-size: 14.3px; font-style: italic; line-height: 20.02px; text-decoration: none;">A to Z Challenge</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.3px; font-style: italic; line-height: 20.02px;">.</span></div>
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Aathirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05048064214070902294noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026821776804720213.post-75061242328580075742016-04-27T17:52:00.002+04:002016-04-28T11:17:41.681+04:00X - Xenia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBIZGBapYbYYWSj8X0t8zjLy6A-RDXEnn39zxIYwZDfXI04SY8oFgweTkkh5ySyPu04WK3EPpdK_cj0vmT9Ua5ZFeYsae3LdlNzOU3dYr43kEez4Q4YoNTN6dU4xZO98ewR-cRbpszDeA/s1600/bad-weather-93871.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBIZGBapYbYYWSj8X0t8zjLy6A-RDXEnn39zxIYwZDfXI04SY8oFgweTkkh5ySyPu04WK3EPpdK_cj0vmT9Ua5ZFeYsae3LdlNzOU3dYr43kEez4Q4YoNTN6dU4xZO98ewR-cRbpszDeA/s640/bad-weather-93871.jpg" width="640"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.dannyst.com/wp-content/uploads/bad-weather-93871.jpg">Image Source</a></span></td></tr>
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The day you made me yours, I gave you everything. Body and soul. I never held back. Love, illogical, stupid, can't-live-without-you love, did that to me. My grey world was suddenly pink. The flowers smelled a little sweeter, the rain drops on my windowpane told me stories, my words turned into art. </div>
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And when you left, a part of me went missing too. I searched for it everywhere; in the scent of your clothes that you left behind, inside your tea mug, on the couch that still carried the imprint of your body, the books that still bore your handwriting. </div>
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It was only later that I realized that what you robbed me of. It was innocence. I would never trust again. And even when I discovered love a second and even third time, the ghost of your betrayal held me back. All it took was years of tear stained pillows and months of therapy and a bunch of friends that I now call family to feel a little bit like my old self again. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3I3Y7OZknCWKIM7MItW50Z0mVeW9Fb_g0nVwhjC86qrpgYRbpV4Gam-7hfNQjTAs75vZpz7wF-72UKdjSgp3RmosE5CrmM-Yc-1Cflvz2bxGj6naRoaJ7QwA-PblH8Y-lPUmmXR0eJZA/s1600/X.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3I3Y7OZknCWKIM7MItW50Z0mVeW9Fb_g0nVwhjC86qrpgYRbpV4Gam-7hfNQjTAs75vZpz7wF-72UKdjSgp3RmosE5CrmM-Yc-1Cflvz2bxGj6naRoaJ7QwA-PblH8Y-lPUmmXR0eJZA/s1600/X.jpg"></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', sans-serif; font-size: 14.3px; font-style: italic; line-height: 20.02px;">Linking this post to the </span><a href="http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/" style="background-color: white; color: red; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', sans-serif; font-size: 14.3px; font-style: italic; line-height: 20.02px; text-decoration: none;">A to Z Challenge</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', sans-serif; font-size: 14.3px; font-style: italic; line-height: 20.02px;">.</span></div>
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Aathirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05048064214070902294noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7026821776804720213.post-65972789265871018852016-04-27T17:10:00.000+04:002016-04-27T17:52:10.201+04:00W - Wren<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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my words roaming freely no italics no punctuation no rules in this game what an eye sore you are thinking yes I can feel it but just this once let me be unconventional what I have been scared of surprisingly it feels good to be raw I don't know if I will ever attempt this again just like how some things in life must not be experienced twice it always loses charm the second time you see just like how some books must never be attempted a second time the magic you felt coursing through your veins is maybe a distant memory but one that refuses to fade in a world that follows rules to the dozen let me break free for now at least and in this moment I feel invincible I feel free<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', sans-serif; font-size: 14.3px; font-style: italic; line-height: 20.02px;">Linking this post to the </span><a href="http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/" style="background-color: white; color: red; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', sans-serif; font-size: 14.3px; font-style: italic; line-height: 20.02px; text-decoration: none;">A to Z Challenge</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'trebuchet ms', sans-serif; font-size: 14.3px; font-style: italic; line-height: 20.02px;">.</span></div>
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Aathirahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05048064214070902294noreply@blogger.com9