The lean girl diaries.....

  I read somewhere that “the purpose of the first draft is to simply exist”. This was an idea that gave me immense relief in recent times - times when I wrote nothing other than what I absolutely had to. In the pursuit of academic writing and a short-lived content writing job, I forgot the joy of writing. When I finally told myself that I had to go back to leisure writing, I was appalled at how empty my head was. I could not think of a single thing to write. Sure, if you gave me a topic, I could make up something and put it out there - but they were not out of my own imagination. The pandemic took away my ability to see beauty in ordinary things. I could no longer look at a passenger in the metro next to me and romanticize her life. There was a lot of strife and conflict around me, that every version of the future looked bleak. I found escape in fantasy books and movies as I was scared of relating to the harsh realities in other kinds of media. It felt like while I still had a lot ...

  Today my grandmother forgot how photos worked. She looked at the picture of a kid in the magazine and thought he was smiling at her. It was a weird thing to see - to see her let go of her understanding of memories. It was sad to know that she would not remember a thousand good days but it also meant she experienced every moment afresh. There is bound to be some confusion when she sees herself on some of those photos. But I will deal with the flurry of emotions if it means she smiles back at everyone who smiles at her through the prints, so full of joy. I always thought memories became important because of their ability to be shared ; that nostalgia was what made certain experiences worth going through. My grandmother's gummy smile today tells a different story. Memories are important because they can be felt (maybe only one time, maybe many many times) This revelation is a turning point for me - because with the idea that memories gained their worth due to the ability to be treas...

Camouflaging is cardinal to cages, secondary only to its function of restriction – that’s what makes them harder to break. They escape detection by distorting themselves into something that can be perceived as utterly non-problematic. One such seemingly fashionable trap that I see in higher academic spaces is the so called ‘academic elitism’ or ‘intellectual sophistication’.  As a disclaimer, let me clarify that this piece is not against genuine scholastic and academic experiences, rather against elitist, inaccessible structures that are purposefully packaging inaccessibility as an indicator of intellect or academic merit. While I appreciate and acknowledge the volume and levels of research that goes into creating intricate notions, I am disturbed by the unwanted complexity their description often assumes. Why is the tendency to use fancy language a form of exclusion? As somebody who has been a student of both posh, well-known schools as well as schools with underdeveloped infrastr...

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom    - Maya Angelou It can be a gift-wrap. It can be golden. It can look a lot like a home - camouflaging is cardinal to cages, secondary only to its function of restriction. In days clouded with seemingly fashionable traps of apathy and violence, the question is, do we recognise our cages? More importantly, do we want to break out of them? As we explore our shrinking spaces of dissent and liberation, let's take a while to align our thoughts on the cages made of stone, steel, identity, hate and what not, that seems to surround us. Maybe once we've recognised those cages, we may be able to bring in more authentic tales of freedom and appreciate the struggles for liberation.

Wise men say that you should learn life from animals (atleast some aspects of it). Solomon, the wise king, asked the sluggard to learn from ants about the importance of hardwork. Crows are often used to remind man to live in the present. Conies are an example of having strong foundations and locusts are remembered for their unity. (I'm aware that all of these examples come from Bible. My literature review is limited, the application of these examples are not though) But what do I say? More importantly, is it important to listen to what I say? Probably not, but I think it's important to have a voice and to find the courage to be opinionated during these trying times. How do I know this? Because the more I bothered about the political correctness of t his post, the more I realised that people will find lacunae in whatever I write and that's ok, because we have different opinions and that's exactly why we need to open our hearts to what other people have to say. While...

“മലയാളം  ഞാൻ  മറന്നു പോയോ?” – ഈ  അടുത്ത കാലത്ത്  എന്നെ  ഏറ്റവും കുഴപ്പിച്ച,  ആശങ്കപ്പെടുത്തിയ,  വിഷമിപ്പിച്ച  ചോദ്യം. ഡൽഹിയിൽ എത്തി  ഒന്നര വർഷമായ എനിക്ക്  ഒരു  കൊച്ചു ഡൽഹിക്കാരിയുടെ  ഛായ  ഒക്കെ  വന്നു തുടങ്ങി. കെട്ടും മട്ടും ഭാവവും ഒക്കെ മാറിയല്ലോ എന്ന നാട്ടിൽ  ഉള്ള  ചേച്ചിമാരുടെ ചെറിയ 'കുത്തും' , കണ്ടു പഴക്കം  വന്നിട്ടും  ഇന്നും  അത്ഭുതത്തോടെ നോക്കുന്ന പൂവാലൻ ചേട്ടന്മാരും എല്ലാം മേൽപറഞ്ഞ ഡൽഹിക്കാരിയെ ഉണർത്തി കൊണ്ടിരിക്കുകയാണ്. ഈ രൂപമാറ്റത്തിനും  ആശയരൂപീകരണത്തിനും  ഇടയിൽ നഷ്ടപ്പെട്ടു പോയ ഒന്നുണ്ട് – എന്‍റെ  ഭാഷ, മലയാളം. ഡൽഹി  ഒരു കുഞ്ഞു മലയാളി കോളനി ആയതുകൊണ്ട് മലയാളം സംസാരിക്കുന്നതിന് കുറവൊന്നുമില്ല. അല്ലെങ്കിലും ആദ്യമായി പറഞ്ഞു തുടങ്ങിയ ഭാഷ എങ്ങനെയാ മറക്കുന്നത് അല്ലേ? എന്നാൽ അല്ല. മലയാളം മറന്നുപോകുക എന്നത് ഒരു റിയാലിറ്റി ആണ്. സംശയം ഉണ്ടെങ്കിൽ ഞാൻ ഈ പോസ്റ്റിൽ എത്ര 'ആംഗലേയ' പദങ്ങൾ ഉപയോഗിച്ചു എന്ന് നോക്കു… എഴുത്ത് സാരമില്ല എന്നു കരുതാം; പക്ഷെ സംസാരമോ? മലയാളം...

Walls. Fences. Barbed Wires. Me and you. Us and them Black and white. Right and Wrong They are arrogant. We are proud We request when they demand The voice of our statements drowned in their threats Always warring. Always sparring. Always scarring. Who are we?! Humans. Two legs. Two arms. Two eyes. One large heart (the size of our fist) Them? Almost humans. Two legs. Two arms. Two eyes. One small stone heart (the size of their wrist), Beating, till we shoot 'em dead. So they aren’t like us? No you stupid child. They’re not. For the 'other' is and should always be OUR BLIND SPOT.