I stand strong doesn't mean I never fell.
I see life doesn't hint that I never acknowledge death.
You see my smile but not my hidden scars,
You hear me laugh but never my wails.
You see what eyes can perceive and you end up judging.
"Look, how she smiles", you say and twitch your face.
The plain white saree I adorn, is the canvas where I
plan to paint hues of life.
I will paint it pink and even red
And let you mock and slay .
I will trample your hatred with a fiersome laughter,
I will tread on your dreams
Never soft, always fierce.
You will dread me someday,
You will eat your hatred and gulp your venom.
That very day you would know what it takes to be a woman.
That very day , I shall have one good laugh.
I am the eldest grandchild in my family. And being the eldest, I was pampered a great deal by my grandparents. My aama (grandma) and baa (grandpa) always shielded me from every possible dangers including thrashings from maa. I have pleasant memories of evening story sessions as grandpa took me to bed. Aama would oil my hair and tie pony tails which resembled coconut trees that I used to draw. Sundays meant elaborate sessions with my grandparents. Baa would trim my nails, aama would fondle me to sleep. Their bed room was literally my playing room, my story book reading room, my painting room and what not. With time, as I grew, I got a room of my own but their room was still my favourite one. When I left for hostel, I missed them more than I missed my parents. It was in the year 2014, I had come home after my exams when aama received a pressure stroke . She couldn't make it. I had spent a month as he lay sick on her bed. All of a sudden, there was a role reversal. I could
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