100 Words: Woman

She smiles.

She cries.

Birth. Cradle. Work. Cook. Clean.

Homework. Chauffeur.

She stays back. She stands up. She goes ahead.

Dries tears. Dries clothes.

She. Her.

Slapped. Snubbed.

Taboo. Trampled.

Left behind.

Dead. Not allowed to live.

Survivor.

Through broken hearts and broken bones.

Her kiss. Her lap. Her hug

Her passion. Her emotion.

Her song. Her dance.

Comfort . Softness.

Old. Young. New. 

Always New.

Fails. Falls. Rises.

Silence. Words.

She loves.

She hates.

Loony. Jealous. Possessive.

Lives through stereotypes.

Beautiful.

Rape.  Horror.Assault. Harassment

Virgin.

She lives. She is.

Dip her in hot water, she emerges strong.

Power. 

Alive

The muse has been visiting often these days. Writing wise I am on a new high. I wish I had the guts to share my fiction on this blog. 


I am not a blogger who aspires to write. Or a girl with a blog who has a huge fan base that convinces her to write a book. Because, she is good enough.


I am a yet to be published writer who blogs. 


I don't need people to tell me to write. 


I write. It's something I did ever since I was twelve. It started with school essays that were read out in class. Then came poetry. 

                            "Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason."

                                                 Novalis

I started creating fictional people much before I started penning down my words. When I was in Kindergarden I invented a fictional sister. My class teacher asked my parents about her. They denied having another offspring. 


Even when I was in 2nd standard I had told one of my classmates about a sister who had been away for a long time and who had suddenly come back home. I kept on this act for months, regaling the antics of my long-lost sister. Her disappearance was as sudden as her arrival. 


(She appeared again in Jan 1999, but that is another story) 


Writing was my anchor. The only thing I thought I was good at. ( By now I know what else I am good at) It pulled  me through tough times. 


I write when I have to. When pen and paper pulls me. ( The memo feature in my phone comes in handy when pens are not available.)


These days I am more disciplined. I am on a deadline, you see. Self created. 


If I close my eyes and imagine my life without writing, I get a sinking feeling. If for some reason I have to stop writing I may survive, I will not live. 


This is why I write. This is why I am. 

Sheets of paper

March is a month for words. Here and in my notebook. 






Such is March.