By: Annapurani Vaidyanathan

Why I write

Writing is never just a hobby.
Sometimes, it is about giving meaning
to words that have been meandering aimlessly along the lanes of your mind.
Sometimes, it is about marrying
two extremely unlikely phrases
just so you can define the chaos
that is shredding your soul to pieces.
Sometimes, it is about putting pen to paper
in a last-ditch effort to thwart a blank page
from haunting you in your nightmares.

But most times, writing is the elixir
that keeps you going. It is the light
that fashions you a way out of a cul-de-sac.
It is your safe harbour,
it is your knight in shining armour.
It becomes the family you can rely on
when things take a turn for the worse,
it becomes your messenger to the universe.

You don’t write to impress.
You write so you can bring to life
your desires and your dreams,
your wishes and your whims.
You write so you can validate
your truths and your tears,
your flaws and your fears.
You write so you can etch for eternity
your time and your thoughts,
your love and your laughs,
your gusto and oh, the gaffes
that casually threaten to rip your heart apart.

You write so you can be exactly who you are,
no matter how extraordinarily common or how incredibly bizarre.

A story, a reminder

This is a story that’s been told a million times over, this is a story that has stood the test of time,
This is a story in which the victim is always a woman – in her infancy, in her teens, in or past her prime,
This is a story whose ending is always the same,
Because, we’re effortlessly quick in passing the ball and playing the blame game,
This is a story in which it’s the woman who is always urged to hurry back home at night before the clock strikes nine,
And it is the woman who is always forced to be benign,
It is the woman who is warned to not walk in the streets alone,
And it is the woman who is expected to condone,
It is the woman who is taught to not talk back,
It is the woman who is asked to stay wary of all attacks,
It is the woman who is asked to toe the line,
It is the woman who is asked to be okay when she loses the race and is left behind,
And yet, she gets the flak for wearing too little, too much,
She bears the brunt for her shiny shoes, for her bright lips, for carrying a little extra cash in her clutch,
She is hunted down for being too loud, too silent, too rude, too friendly,
She is scorned for trusting too easily and for laughing with alacrity,
Because, this is a story where the society doesn’t bother to grow a spine,
Because, this is a story in which generations will pass but her screams will continue to be nothing more than a mime,
Because, this is a story, a reminder, that no matter who in the world she is and what she chooses to be, she could always be next in line and…it’s probably just a matter of time.

Mirror, mirror on the wall

Mirror, mirror on the wall,
tell me I’m the prettiest of them all,
tell me I’m witty, tell me I’m wise, tell me I’m all things nice,
tell me I forgive quickly, tell me I get over my anguish in a trice,
tell me I’m one of a kind, tell me the world is kind,
tell me we’re all a family, a unit; tell me we all walk together so nobody is ever left behind,
tell me there’s merit in keeping my head down and trudging along,
tell me there’s merit in hoping, in persevering, in trying hard to belong,
tell me I’m content, tell me I don’t feel less than, tell me I’m great stuff,
tell me — in the eyes of the world — I’m competent, I’m smart, I’m truly enough,
tell me I’m the goddamn prize, tell me the universe expands every day just to be my ally,
go ahead, muster up that courage and lie,
and let me float on the cloud for a while,
because reality, my friend, often leaves me high and dry.

A wall of ice

Perfunctory calls, customary messages. Anything beyond, causes unnecessary duress. Sure, we’re bound together by family, by ancestral ties. But it’s now metamorphosed into an equation we no longer recognize.
We never feel at home with each other, there’s a facade that envelopes our conversations. There’s a forced politeness, a pretence that overrides our actions.
We don’t miss each other’s company, because, hey, we never had much of it anyway. We don’t cherish our time together, maybe that’s why, the memories I have of us are always in disarray.
We don’t take liberties with each other, we remember each other’s birthdays based on calendar reminders, heck, we’re mere upgrades from a stranger. We don’t share our failures, our fears, our flaws, we’re just too uneasy in each other’s presence to discuss our thoughts.
You and I, we belong in worlds that are passing trains, parallel plains; we may share a meal, a hello-hi, but we’ll never be each other’s ally.
Because we’ve gotten used to each other’s silence, we’re okay with our absence filling the void, we’re comfortable with our ballooning aloofness.
Blood may be thicker than water, but it’s definitely thinner than the wall of ice we’ve built between us.