Typing out loud

She is a mother. She unsees broken water tubs and bent bathroom rods. She unsees the dent upon the almirah's face. She unsees ripped pillows- with stories of a bird that flew in, and the pillow that chased it out. She unsees all left over signs of violence  She is a mother — She has to unsee it. Still, at times, she falters as a mother. Unable to unsee patterns of the life she once lived. She holds hands and whispers warnings. But she is a mother.

  I can’t pen my thoughts anymore—they slip through my fingers like sand grains you try to grasp desperately. For what else in this whole wide world demands a line, a verse, a sigh, a thought, a breath besides the space between your furrowed eyebrows? Your subtle blush at the corner of your lips? Your struggles through a sentence? Everything that held my breath. That fragile thought is my muse. What other sight matters enough to warrant words? What other feeling begs to be felt? “Zamane bhar ke gham ya ik tera gham, ye gham hoga toh kitne gham na honge”—whether it's the sorrow of the whole wide world or your sorrow, once this exists, no other sorrow remains. The sorrow of love has consumed me so completely that a world full of bloodshed, hunger, violence, and assault fades to my eyes. The guilt of privilege finally drifts away as I become ignorant and entirely absorbed in my own sorrow. White little hearts on coffee; raindrops lingering on flowers after a shower; window seats in cr...

Mistakes were made by my younger self—terrible mistakes, the regret of which echoes in the emptiness of my present days. Yet you, too, have not spared me gentleness. Despite your cold turns, harsh words, and violent doings, I find it impossible to unlove you. And that, my friend, is love: helpless, flawed, hopeful, and disappointing. They say I cannot move on, that my love for you outshines every ember of my anger or dare I say hatred. Nonetheless, I realize the truth of it, each moment that I live. The gravity of my affection still holds me captive, binding me in chains sweeter than your bitterness ever could. I can’t pen my thoughts anymore—they slip through my fingers like sand grains you try to grasp desperately. For what else in this whole wide world demands a line, a verse, a sigh, a thought, a breath besides the space between your furrowed eyebrows? Your subtle blush at the corner of your lips? Your struggles through a sentence? Everything that held my breath. That fragile thoug...