Isha Agrawal's Blog, page 2

i’m a woman

A few days ago, a man had the audacity to leave a comment about “feminism” and “fertility rate” on one of my reels. I like to keep my page drama-free so I deleted it. As usual, with all the things in my life, I had a delayed reaction to this little event as well. It’s not just this man’s comment but I’ve been watching a lot of content on “feminism” and I had a few things to say, some opinions to share so here it goes.

[also, I didn’t respond to that comment because I knew all that I had to say would never fit in there so yep]

I’m a woman in case you couldn’t tell. I’ve been a female since the day I was born. I have never been a man. I have men in my life – mainly my father, brother, and extended family members such as uncles though. 

Now, in case it wasn’t clear, I’ll repeat, I’m a woman with very women-like experiences so of course I’ll write about it. If that bothers you well, I can’t do anything about it except hope you find something that solves your issues.

I have a heart that cries for the dreams that I lost and the freedom I never got. I have a mind that never quietens and keeps making me angry about all the things I went through. I was privileged enough to study, get an education, and live a comfortable life that is of course paid for by my father.

But, just because you’re paying for something doesn’t give you the power to abuse it.

Now, coming to the word “feminism”. In case you are too busy leaving negative comments on people’s pages, here’s a simple meaning for you, because I know, leaving comments on other’s content is quite time-consuming. I can only imagine how hard it is for you to find new ways to bring us women down.

We get it, it’s a tough life for men.

If you type the word “feminism” on Google, just like you type your comments on Instagram, you’ll see a page appear on your phone screen.

According to it, the simple meaning of the term feminism is “the belief that women should have the same rights and opportunities as men”.

I’ll go a step further and simplify it for you:-

Belief means a feeling that somebody/ something is true, morally good, or right, or that somebody/something really exists Woman means an adult female person [someone like me, your mother, your sister, your female friends, your aunts, etc] Rights can be defined in multiple ways but at the core, it means legal, social, or ethical principles of freedom or entitlement which I’m sure you must know very well Opportunities mean a chance to do something that you would like to do, a situation or a time in which it is possible to do something that you would like to do which again I’m sure you know very well Man means an adult male human that is you

Now that the definition is out of our way, let’s focus on what the term means. It means giving equal opportunities and rights to women as to men. It’s about giving the choice and making it accessible for both genders.

You are a man, I know you must be very busy, with all those comments and trying to think of things you can use to bring women down, but let’s take a minute. Just close your eyes or not because how dare a little girl tell you to do something, I get it, but if you want, do it and think about what you do throughout the day.

According to the things I’ve seen, like, I have a father and a brother after all so I’d like to believe I know a thing or two.

So, you wake up, you brush your teeth, take a shower, get dressed, eat your breakfast, maybe pack the tiffin that someone cooked for you, go to that job, do your work, eat your lunch, and then you come back home, eat dinner, and sleep.

Now, I’m just a girl but here’s what my day looks like, I hope you have got some time.

I wake up, go for a walk because all this anger and rage isn’t going to vanish so I need to take care of my mental health and nature helps me, I come back home, brush my teeth, drink water, write for an hour, then I have a cup of tea, do some chores before taking a shower, then I get dressed, cook breakfast and help my mom in the kitchen, serve my father first, wrap things in the kitchen, eat my breakfast with mom, then do laundry and some more chores, cook lunch with mom, eat lunch, fold the laundry or leave it, do some work related to my book or read, some more chores I might have forgotten or wasn’t in the mood to finish, get up to cook dinner with mom, eat dinner, change out of my day outfit, do some other insignificant chores, then finish reading fifty pages or draw if my mind is too busy until it’s time to sleep.

This is a regular day if my mom is well. If she isn’t, remove my work related to my book part and that’s another way my day goes.

I work from home so that’s how my day looks now. When I was studying, it was a bit different but the pattern was quite similar.

Now, imagine doing this all with an angry mind and a restless heart that keeps telling you that you need to rest before you blow up. Before you bring your “men have to work too” argument, please let me tell you women who work still have to take care of their house.

Plus, you’re the one who can’t accept the idea of “women of your house” working, it’s your hands that still hold patriarchy so closely like it’s your first born son so don’t complain about how you’re the only one who can support your family. It would be easier if you could accept “women of your house” working.

It’s not a shame to accept that you’re okay with women working nine to five. It’s not a shame to accept that you do see women as women, as humans with a working heart and mind and souls. It’s okay but I know it’s not okay with you, so let your ego force you to overwork, I couldn’t care less.

Most of the time, people think my dreams are a hobby, a way to pass the time before it’s my time to get married. I know it’s a bit hard to open your eyes and see this, but women do have other dreams besides getting married and having kids. 

Now, I like to think I know a thing or two about men. Let me make it clear, I don’t hate men, but I do hate the privileges they have. And before you say stupid things, let me tell you, yes, my anger does stem from my home and my surroundings. 

If I could walk freely at night, I’d be happy too. But that’s not our concern right now.

Imagine you gave up everything in life, including your degree and happiness, you found one thing that saved you and that thing is the reason you’re still alive. How would you feel if somebody insulted that thing? Hurts right?

Imagine someone said you were lucky and didn’t see your hard work behind it and the sacrifices you made.

Forget that, let’s begin with the dream.

Imagine you aren’t even allowed to dream.

Imagine someone bragging about how they never stopped you from dreaming.

Imagine you were ready to do anything to achieve that dream.

But then surprise, you realize it can’t be allowed, it can’t be possible just because the head of your house deemed it the perfect solution. They are scared of you flying away so instead of caging you, they decide to chop off your wings. The easiest solution to this problem.

Years later, when you’re still mourning the loss of your wings, they tell you, you were allowed to fly, why didn’t you fly, you can fly now if you want the sky so much. But surprise, your wings don’t just magically reappear.

Yeah, turns out flying takes a lot of practice along with your wings too. Sad isn’t it?

That’s just the way it works.

So sitting in your cage, you found a way to share your story about surviving in the cage, without your wings. Now it’s your wings, your cage, your pain, your anger, your sadness, and someone comes and smashes your cage and says whatever you’re saying or doing isn’t right. Or, well, they say there are countless birds in the sky.

Does that mean your wings don’t matter?

Does that mean your pain doesn’t matter?

I’m a woman, I write about my pain, my life, and my problems, for women whose lives are similar to mine or who can relate to it. I’m a woman and I talk about my story on my page with my audience so if your algorithm shows you my content, a page where I talk about my pain, my life, and my problems, with women, then it’s not my fault. You take up your grievances to Instagram and other authorities who will listen to you. 

I have enough men in my life sharing their sobbing stories, if I needed more unsolicited advice and unwanted opinions, I’d have listened to them, I’d go to them than listen to a random stranger on the internet.

There are so many people, including both men and women, who have the audacity to hurt some other person on the internet. If you are jobless and have ample time, here is a list of things that you can do instead of leaving stupid opinions on the internet where nobody cares about a nobody like you –

Take up cooking or baking classes; learn sewing, stitching, embroidery, painting, drawing, and sketching; try Duolingo and learn a new language; read more books; write; journal; do yoga; meditate; run; jog; watch TV or Netflix; wash your clothes; clean your house; if you’re well off then help others with your money and knowledge; get off your phone; go on a walk; plant a tree; start gardening; shut off your devices; log out of Instagram; if you think you have too much to say and are quite knowledgeable then there are options are Google Meet where you can hold Workshops and earn money by sharing these unwanted opinions, though I’m not sure people will actually pay you because who cares about a nobody like you?

Anyway, this was supposed to be about feminism. If it helps, you can try the above-mentioned things.

Feminism tries to help women like me who have dreams and hearts that want more. If you’re not like us, good for you but there’s no need for you to prove how stupid and shallow you are by saying things like feminism fucked up our society and it’s bullshit, or feminists are stupid.

I have a couple of men in my life who think they can tame me but guess who is losing their minds now? I don’t care about what you, a nobody said on my reel, and honestly, besides the words feminism and fertility, I didn’t waste a minute trying to understand it. I know you won’t read this but this is for all the men, and women, who have ample amounts of time on their hands.

If you don’t have anything nice to say don’t speak at all, your words don’t matter much to those they are hurled at anyway. We can see your profiles and names and everything is quite transparent these days so you’re only embarrassing yourselves.

Also, if that man ever happens to read this, I hope you figure out your issues with your wife and get the chance to have a baby. Or therapy. Or maybe earn enough to afford your eye treatment because if you’d looked, you’d have found in the caption it said, the reel was about a fictional woman.

But I get it, leaving a comment is more important than educating yourself.

Anyway, now that you know the meaning of the term “feminism” I hope we can all be educated and learn more and move in a direction that works for all of us, instead of stepping on the dreams of one gender.

If God didn’t want us to dream, he wouldn’t have given women a soul and heart. But he did give us all of it and since he’s the one who created us all, I’d like to think he did have something in his mind, maybe.

I mean someone who created this universe might just be more intelligent than someone who leaves nasty comments on a girl’s Instagram, right? I mean, yes you’re a man and superior, but let’s not think you’re above God, if that’s alright with you? You couldn’t be above him or her, right?

I’m a woman but I’m a human too. I try to put human and humanity first and I hope you can remember that too. 

[I wrote this after I received the first comment but then I got another comment this week and honestly, I’m gonna bite back now if someone tries to throw stones at me. Thankfully, my issues have me made me stronger so I’m not afraid of these stupid people. And it’s not just about me. I’ve seen several women who create for fun or even work whose comment section is littered with garbage words written by garbage men, and even women. Men, I get it, they are worthless, but I’m tired of these women who try to bring other women down. I know life is unfair but we should try to lift our sisters up and help them instead of stooping so low and acting like a man. Anyway, I’ve heard enough and I eat people like these for dinner so I couldn’t care less, this is just a letter for my friends to not let these stupid people affect them, you go girl!]

a playground for me by isha agrawal

29/04

“If I ask you something, do you promise to be honest?”

Silence. 

“Say something.” 

More silence. 

“Fine, in that case, I’ll just ask. Did you steal me from someone? Why are you so scared to let me go? More importantly, what are you so afraid of? What’s waiting for me on the other side that you simply do not want to let me go?” 

“The world is a scary place, my dear.”

“How can I know that when it’s your word against mine? I need to see it with my own eyes, Mama.”

“Dear-

“Please Papa, let me be happy. Let me play and have fun before I grow up.” 

“Dear.” 

“No! I wanna play!” She cries. 

Her parents share a concerned look that goes unnoticed by the twelve-year-old girl. 

“All my friends are going to the field trip but you won’t let me go. Please let me play in the garden.” she cries, looking longingly at the garden from the balcony too small to fit three people. She’s only ever been there with her parents or whenever her friends came over, but even then one of her parents accompanied her. At twelve, the little girl was quite stubborn and hell-bent on what she wanted. But despite how tiring her awful crying could be, her parents never budged or took pity on her. 

Her adamance didn’t come from nowhere after all. 

“No. it’s four in the evening. Go study while your mom and I finish the business meeting.” 

“But today is Sunday, Papa!” 

“Go do something in your room then, my dear.” 

Mama looked between them and nodded her head in agreement. “Papa is indeed correct.”

She cried, stomping her feet as she made her way to the bedroom. Her denim dungaree that was a size too big until then suddenly began to feel too small. The little girl wasn’t aware but her clothes just depicted her life – that she was trapped and couldn’t change out of it if she didn’t want Mama to be angry later while washing two pairs of clothes which in turn would ruin Papa’s mood. 

So the little girl went to her desk, grabbed a book she’d borrowed from the school library, and began to read, the only playground she could afford at the time and that age.

dear zindagi, how are you?

5/04/24

I know everything has to change. I know that nothing is constant but does everything really need to change? I’m terrified to think of ten years from now. To think that the place where I was born and brought up would be foreign to myself despite me watching it evolve with every single creation and destruction humans could ever do. 

I’m twenty two and I don’t recognize the path to my school anymore. Because they destroyed the cafe and the bus stand that I used to use as a landmark. In case I needed to tell someone the way to school. I was a kid who was never good with addresses. Landmarks were easy for me to remember and recite to others. 

I don’t remember what stood in the place of the salon near my apartment. I can’t imagine what will stand next in the place of my apartment where I currently live.

Wild to think our hands are made to create and the same hold the power to destroy these beauties. Wild to think our eyes can cry because of happiness and sadness, for places build of stones and cement. 

It’s not the building, it’s the memories we cry for. It’s not the foundation, it’s the milestones that the place stands for that causes such immense pain. 

As a kid, I wanted to grow up, turn eighteen as soon as possible because I was told I’d be free. But I was once also scared of growing up, scared of fading into nothingness, scared of turning into one of those who hated their life and job, who couldn’t achieve everything they promised themselves they’d ever do when they were kids with shiny eyes and glittering dreams. I hated the idea that my dreams would just be that – dreams. 

I know nothing will change yet everything will change ten years from now but I wish, I really wish the places I made memories in still remind me of me and what I used to be, what I dreamed and longed for as a child in her tiny bedroom, scribbling things in her cheap, handmade journal. 

On the way back home tonight, I saw my neighbor walking his dog and I thought, he’s still alive!? 

I know it’s a weird thought but please forgive me.

I’m glad to know some things remain the same, despite growing and glowing. And just like that, even if it’s just for a moment, I know I’ll be alright. 

I know even if this place changes, even if I change, I’ll still have these memories, I’ll still have my time here for however long it is. I know I can hold onto these memories, but please can you do me a favor and be kind to me – don’t ever change so much to the point I can’t recognize you anymore, pretty please? 

//please don’t ever become a stranger whose laugh I could recognize anywhere//

the other world by isha agrawal

“Wake up,” a soft voice groans in my ears.

With a pained sigh, I raise my head and blink at the person leaning against my desk.

“It’s almost eleven at night, Shaia.” said my manager. I blink at her, hearing her words but not listening to any of it.

“You should head home now.” She said, her voice shaking a little. “It’s getting late. Take a day off tomorrow to rest.”

I might be half-asleep but the thought that I should be working doesn’t leave me. I can’t take a day off. I need the money to pay for Mom’s medical treatment which costs twice my rent for six months.

“I’ll leave once I’ve submitted this new report. I think this should work, now that I’ve removed the bug.”

“Shaia, you are like my daughter and I’ve been working here for over a decade. So I’ll tell you this one thing – these higher-up authorities…they can remove that bug on their own. The world won’t end if you take a leave.”

“I know, but we’re running late.”

“Shaia, go home. Now,” she leans forward to shut down my computer for me. “Go.”

I get up reluctantly, throwing my things spread on my white desk into my black leather shoulder bag. A sharp pain shoots up the right side of my face. I realise that my cheeks hurt from pressing against the pens and journal on my desk while I was sleeping. Taking my almost empty sipper mug with me, I take one last look at the dark screen of my computer. I need to finish this quickly so I can get that bonus money.

Pushing my black rectangular frames over my nose, I sigh remembering the day I raised my hand to take on extra work for this project. I was already drowning in the work related to three different apps I had created for this company ever since I started working here.  

I was dedicated and hard-working but even after all that dedication I was still a human with only twenty-four hours in a day. I couldn’t increase the number of hours in my day by being a workaholic. I knew that very well.

Yet here I was. The day is still fresh in my memory, the regret only deepening as days pass by.

It was the beginning of this year. I was called into the conference room, along with a few chosen colleagues of mine, and told about this new project. It wasn’t compulsory. Nothing and nobody was forcing me yet I couldn’t say no, couldn’t take a step back. Not because it was creative and would look good on my non-existent resume. But because we’d be given a hefty sum as a bonus – the money that could help me with mom’s operation.

If I received that, I could shift her from a government hospital to a private one with excellent services. I had a chance to save her, even if it was for an extra day with her.

Exiting the building, I walk to the empty parking lot. I tighten my trench coat on my waist when the wind blows. Opening the car door, I throw my bag into the passenger seat and lean against the cold metal.

I never spent a single dime of my hard-earned money on anything that wasn’t important. Mom and I still lived in that home where I had to pay rent after Dad passed away five years ago. I still wore half of the clothes I had bought during college. If I had an older sibling or someone to ask for help, I would have but I didn’t, thanks to my parent’s inter-caste marriage. I’m their only child–a child they spent years praying for. I love them, I really do but sometimes I can’t help but think of giving up.

Why couldn’t Dad stay for me? Why did God take him away? He was a good man, worked hard, and loved us fiercely. Yet, he’s the one who isn’t a part of this world anymore while the bad guys roam around freely.

Tears of anguish and frustration start streaming down my face and I give myself five minutes to feel pity for myself. Then I get in my mom’s old car and instead of heading home, take the path to the government hospital. The thirty-minute drive takes me almost an hour to cover since the car is way older than me and I’m also sleepy.

Before meeting Mom, I decided to clean myself. I can’t be unhappy and make her feel worse than she already does. So, with my bag in one hand and my phone in the other, I step into the silent hospital.

A nurse wearing a scrub nods her head at me near the reception. I’ve been coming here ever since Mom was first diagnosed. These people have practically watched me grow up, even if those visits were yearly. The sight of the stretchers and nurses with tools doesn’t even terrify me anymore like it once did.

Following the white overhead lights, I walk into the quiet long corridor beside the reception, where the last door leads to a restroom. I open the white door and leave it ajar, walking toward the wash basins. A couple of tube light hangs from the ceiling, half of it still attached to the wall while the other half swings in the air.

The reflection of my face in the huge rectangle mirror running along the wall doesn’t even startle me. I’m used to the hollow of my cheeks and the dark crescent under my eyes. I can hardly remember the last time I dressed up for something.

I bend down to set my bag and phone on the black and white chequered tiled floor. Then I straighten up and begin washing my face with cold tap water. That should wake me up and help me enough to put on a happy face for Mom. She looked rather ill yesterday so I don’t want to bring her down with my problems tonight. She must be sleeping but I know she’ll wake up, like she does every time I come to meet her at ungodly hours.

I rub my wet hands on my hair, setting them as I look around. I’m retying my long dark hair in a ponytail at the nape of my neck when something catches my eye in the mirror.

Behind me, there are four white doors for the bathroom stalls to give the women some privacy. This is an old hospital and with no funds, there hasn’t been any renovation in decades. Even though we live in one of the smartest cities in the world, the poor are still poor.

The last stall has been locked up after the pump burst open in that corner. It has been that way ever since I started coming here. So, I’m a bit curious to see the brown rusty lock broken tonight.

I didn’t use this restroom yesterday during my visit so I can’t be sure if this happened tonight or yesterday. Before that, I’m certain it was locked and no one could use it.

I take a step toward that stall with my hair half done and my heart beating wildly in my chest for some reason. I keep wondering what could have happened here that led to this. I open the door and some strange sort of light flashes into my eyes. It’s all white around me before I suddenly fall.

When I wake up, it happens slowly. I look at my surroundings – darkness, pitch black darkness, and silence so loud you can feel it on your skin. Nothing makes sense to me. My eyes take time to adjust to the darkness. Feeling my hand in the darkness, I bend forward to touch my cold feet. How were they even cold when I was wearing my ankle boots and thick socks? But instead of the soft material of my boots, when I touch my feet, I feel my fingers, so cold.

What’s happening?

Where am I?

I try to stand up. A sharp pain shoots up the right side of my body and I end up on the ground, my butt taking the good brunt of my sudden fall. I’m so exhausted. I’ll get up in a moment and then try to head back home.

Just a moment.

I’ll close my eyes and wake up to go home.

Yes, that sounds good.

Mom must be waiting for me.

I need to look good for her.

A minute turns into hours and when I wake up, soft sunlight gleams at the side of my face. Blinking slowly, I tilt my head to my right, then left, scanning where I am. The earthy smell of the wet ground, like it’s just rained, fills my nose. I rub my eyes and blink a few times before everything comes to focus. The brown and green over me comforts me like a warm embrace. It looks like a rock and then, I feel it—the softness under my back.  There’s moss-like growth everywhere around me – on the rocks beneath me, above me, and beside me.

Is it a…cave?

It surely looks like a cave. There’s a way out on my right and on my left, all I can see is a long way into darkness. Where the hell am I?

And why isn’t the darkness scaring me?

I lay still for a moment or so before I decide I need to leave.

Getting up on my feet is a painful struggle but I manage it. Dragging my bare feet, I leave the cave, my left hand rubbing my right arm which feels numb. Once I’m out in the open, I take a breath and try stretching my limbs. Everything feels so calm and serene. I could live here forever, away from all that noise.

Everything is white and gloomy…almost dead around me. There’s nothing here as far as my eyes can see. Everything is too silent, too quiet, and there’s not a single sign of life around me. Except for the sunlight, everything is barren and empty. The sun is the only source of light and color.

As I keep looking at it, I feel like I’m daydreaming about an imaginary universe. What’s going on? Is this some dream? It’s too peaceful. Almost like…heaven.

And that does it. I snap out of that daze.

Oh my god, am I dead?

Where am I?

Is this heaven?

What’s going on?

Shit, have I been kidnapped?

Oh no. No. No.

I need to see Mom. She must be thinking where I am.

I need to run to her.

Putting one step after another, I shuffle my feet, until I begin running, to what, I have no clue. But, hopefully, I’ll find something. And when I do, I’m gonna find whoever did this to me and make them pay!

Yes, that’s what I’ll do. My stomach grumbles and I realize that I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten anything since lunch. But I ignore the sound of it as I keep running forward and forward, to no end.

let your hands be hands, don’t turn them into a weapon.

I was in ninth grade in school. That’s the first time I had a reality check. It was sudden, sharp and quick, like a slap to your face or a bucket of water on your face. That’s how quick it was. It wasn’t a slow realisation. It was sudden.

It was lunch time. I was out with my three other female friends. We were talking about something and somehow it turned into a conversation about guys. This one girl, my friend at the time, said, “That was the first time my dad hit me.”

The smile and laugh washed off my face. I was speechless, numb, and blank.

I was the youngest among them, so I was around 13 or maybe 14, I don’t remember.

Having grown up seeing abuse very closely, I didn’t have a single clue about it. I didn’t know other kids were treated differently. I didn’t know what I’d seen was wrong and shouldn’t have happened. I didn’t know it was abuse, that it was unjust and wrong.

In our world, “abuse” as I’ve come to know now was and still is very common yet nobody seems to care about it. Everyone I knew had something similar and horrifying to share. Yet nobody thought “That doesn’t sound right.”

“My mother locked me in the dark storage room.” “My dad slapped me because I yelled.” “Mom beat the shit out of me when I wasn’t eating.” The various abusive terms used in our language that the parents used in front of and in context with their kids.

It was all abuse, abuse, and more abuse everywhere.

“But he just hit you once.” “Your sister was beaten more than you. You don’t have to complain.”

Can I only speak about it when it’s worse than others? Why do I need to speak about it only if I’m dying and hospitalized from this abuse?

Why can’t abuse, even if it’s a single slap or a thousand slaps, be seen for what it is?

Abuse can be of different types. You talking shit to your kids. You hitting them. “Oh but his father was angry and my son was annoying him when he knows better.” “But my kids don’t listen to me until I make them understand with my hands.“

Your kid shouldn’t have to know better. You are the parent. It’s your responsibility to be the guardian. You know why it’s called guardian? Because you are supposed to look after them and save them!

We don’t know something is wrong until someone points it out to us.

The belt shouldn’t be something your kid is afraid of. Your shoes, hands, legs, mouth, stick, everything you used as a weapon, the kids shouldn’t be afraid of them. It breaks them. It leaves scars on them.

As kids, we all are exposed to phones these days. And instead of raising awareness, all I see is memes, funny videos and skit talking about “abuse” as if it’s okay. Instead of talking about it, we’re making jokes which are then labelled as relatable and dark humour content.

Your kid should be relating to “my dad bought me flowers just because” videos. They shouldn’t be relating to “dads hitting my sibling about…so and so…when I’m about to talk about…so and so” videos.

Abuse is so common here that nobody even questions it. It’s NORMAL. I repeat again in case it didn’t hit you – ITS NORMAL TO HIT YOUR KIDS! BUT IT’S NOT OKAY TO TALK ABOUT IT.

When and how and where as a society did we go so wrong? That our kids think it’s okay to be abused? To think it’s okay to use sarcasm and jokes as a defence/ coping mechanism when it comes to talking/ sharing stories about abuse? That they think every kid is treated the same way? That it’s not a big deal?

It’s so normal to abuse them, be it verbally, physically, mentally, emotionally, everything, every form of abuse is normal. Even if you don’t have the time to see the numbers, you can see how grave this situation by talking to people around you or just look at the numbers of likes and comments on such “abuse” videos. You’ll know and learn enough. HOW CAN IT BE OKAY TO HURT SOMEONE?

“But he only hit him once when he lost his cool.” “She knows better than to not argue with me.”

If you, as a parent, be it at the age of 25, or 35, or 47, or 57, CAN NOT CONTROL YOUR EMOTIONS, then you do not and should not have kids. It’s as simple as that.

Your kids shouldn’t escape you. You’re supposed to be the person they look up to and turn to when the world is harsh, not someone they need to escape.

In simple terms, the kids should feel safe with you.

If you can’t protect your kids, if you can’t control your anger, if you are unable to talk nicely like a decent human being, if you can only talk with your hands and legs instead of mouth, if you’re not a nice human who doesn’t know what abuse is, then YOU DO NOT DESERVE TO BE A PARENT.

I didn’t know it then.

Years later, I know better now.

And if I can save even one kid, help even one soul, then I’ll know why all these sufferings were worth it.

You are 30, the kid is 5. How can you hit them? How can you abuse them? How can you hurt something you gave life to? Why do you think you deserve, or have the right to mistreat them?

“I gave life to them, I can do whatever I want.” Okay, then.

Since you gave them their lives, I think it’s only fair they return that favour by treating you the same way once they are old enough.

It’s fair game, right?

Well, do you have the answers for that?

This isn’t a race of who gets hurt more. This isn’t a competition of which abuse is more severe and deserves more attention than others.

ABUSE is ABUSE. It’s as simple as that.

There’s no other explanation and complication to this statement.

I hope you are kind to people around you and if you see someone struggling, please help them. Even if it’s by being there for them.

I hope your sufferings end today.

I hope you smile more today and from today onwards.

I hope you find a safe haven.

And to those assholes who think abuse is normal, I hope you KARMA finds you.

take a step back by isha agrawal

9/01/24

there are some things that you can only feel and experience for yourself

these are the things words fail to capture 

now the world is silent and it reminds me of a feeling I haven’t felt in a while

it reminds me of being alive 

of being in love with life and it’s little things

like the way your fingers feel on my skin

the way that bite of jaggery melts in your mouth on a cold winter morning

the first bite of your favorite dessert after you’ve achieved your goal

or just because

it’s the way your tongue and mine are the same 

but my name tastes sweeter coming from you

or maybe the way your hands and mine are the same but 

it feels like coming home after a tired day when you 

cup my face and 

wrap me in your arms 

and hide me from the world for a moment

the way that feeling of free falling feels when you realize you’re in love

and the way that stranger smiles when you’re kind to them

or the warm feeling in your chest when someone compliments you on a bad day

it’s the little things that go unnoticed

and I didn’t know how much of these moments made me

until I sat down in the quietness

hoping to put them into words while the world slept

I wish I were a scientist or someone great

who could build something that ensured 

that, that smile never slipped off your face

that those soft brown eyes of yours never learn

what it means to cry until there was nothing left to cry for

that you didn’t go to bed wondering if you were loved 

or if you were enough

we are all humans and we’ve had enough

and though nobody said this to you, 

I hope you know you’re loved,

and if you don’t feel like you’re loved enough,

look around and see these little things,

see the sun shining for you,

see the moon looking out for you when it’s dark and

you feel alone,

see the birds and plants doing their thing to make sure you’re fed and exist, 

if you don’t feel alive,

stop, take a minute, and look around,

look around and take it in,

the world hasn’t ended yet. 

[this is the first time i wrote something positive, that’s about falling in love and i’m quite proud of this if i’m being honest]

Prologue

JESS

Fear – it can either break you or build you. It can make you stick in one place or it can make you take a leap of faith and jump. In my case, it was the latter. I took a leap of faith with Ravi and I’m only hoping that this won’t come to bite me in the ass in the future.

A few days ago, I was living a miserable life with my parents. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still miserable. But, today it’s different. Not because I’m wearing a bridal lehenga as I take small steps toward my husband-to-be. Well, fake husband, but a husband nonetheless. But because today is my last day with my parents.

Woohoo!                    

As I look at Ravi, standing under the scorching heat wearing an embroidered red kurta with beige pants, with his parents hovering beside him, I don’t feel the unwillingness that I’d have expected. Instead, I relax at the smile that takes over his bearded face on seeing me. My body begins to feel free of the invisible burden they have been carrying for the past few weeks.

He stands tall, hands crossed in front of his body, waiting patiently for me at the end of the aisle as I head toward him, my Mom beside me. A romantic Bollywood song plays softly in the speakers placed at every corner of the garden, silencing the voices inside my head.

When I falter in my next step, a small encouraging nod of his head pushes me to keep walking toward him and possibly, a new future.

In another universe, if I was different and my life was different, then I could’ve pictured that different version of me falling for him. Unfortunately, we live in this world where our story has to go like this. Agreeing on a fake wedding and making deals behind everybody’s back.

Once I reach the wedding altar decorated with red and pink flowers, where my fake husband stands, Mom leaves me alone to take her spot next to Dad behind us while I stand next to Ravi.

As soon as we’re seated on the maroon wedding stool, I whisper a soft “thank you” under my breath only for him to hear.  

“You really need to stop doing that, Jessica,” Ravi mutters, eyes fixed on the priest who chants in Sanskrit.

He doesn’t seem fazed by any of this. Meanwhile, I, who had come up with this crazy plan, am just hoping that I don’t let my mask slip away. This is the beginning of my new life but it could easily be the end as well.

As the priest keeps chanting, I sneak a few glances at my surroundings to ignore my stomach tying up in knots. My red veil shifts at the sudden movement so I fix it with my left hand. A few familiar faces of my relatives smile up at me from the chairs they are sitting on, placed in front of the wedding altar while other guests busy themselves with mindless conversations.

Flowers – both real and fake – cover the pillars placed in the garden. The chandeliers hung on the faux ceiling wrapped in white cloth look dull in the bright morning light. Just then, a movement in the far left corner of the garden catches my attention. Turning my head I notice Raina, my cousin talking animatedly to her Mom, who is also my aunt. In her hands, she holds the tray with our wedding bands. I know that because Mom had shown it to me this morning.

This is it, I realize before turning my focus back to the priest.

I mentally scoff at my past self who used to run away from the thought of marriage. So much for thinking I’d never bow down to a man’s will ever again. I never thought I’d say this, but this marriage will be my way to freedom. Marriage for me has always been the equivalent of jail and shackles. I imagined it to be suffocating.

I want to tell my past self, news flash, this is what freedom looks like. Striking deals and finding your own way out when you’ve hit rock bottom.

The smoke from the sacred fire makes it hard for me to breathe so I take deep breaths from my mouth. Both of our parents stand behind us, like the forgotten side characters in a movie. But I haven’t forgotten about them.

How could I?

After all, my parents are the reason I had to take this drastic step. I don’t feel an ounce of regret for lying to them. However, there’s a very tiny part of me that feels sad for Ravi. My fake husband will never get to experience a real wedding.

Although we’ve only met twice – three if I count that first encounter – he has assured me both times that he doesn’t mind anything. Not our deal, not the fact that he might be wasting his time with me, and not the fact that this is the last day before he gives up his status of “bachelor”. Maybe, once this ends, we could be friends and share a cup of coffee as we laugh about our stupid mistakes.

“You can stand up for the ring exchange ceremony,” the priest says, putting a brake on the thoughts whirling inside my head.

As I stand up, bunching up my heavy skirt to make some space for my legs, I notice the caterers setting up the tables for lunch at the far corner of the garden.

The loud chatter allows Ravi to whisper, “It’s going to be alright, Jess.”

I turn my head back at his voice. When our eyes meet, his thousand-watt smile returns and knocks me back. There’s just so much honesty in his one simple smile that I am shaken by it. It deludes me into thinking I will get everything I’ve ever wanted.

Despite the voices in my head that sneak up on me from time to time, I feel calm at this moment.

It’s going to be alright.

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a dream and you by isha agrawal

I came out of my room with my belongings clutched tightly in my hands, running away from them with tears streaming down my face. I put my pillow and blanket on the floor and lay down. But then, I got up with a sudden realization. I looked around me, searching for him. 

When I couldn’t see him anywhere, I got on my feet and walked to the other room adjoining the hall. 

In the darkness, I made my way to him. I have been here enough times to know my way even in the darkest darkness. 

And there he was – sitting with a piece of broken glass clutched in his hand. Blood trickled down his palm, onto his trousers. He was hurting himself. My knees gave out at the sight of him. Sad, broken, so lonely and devastated as if he was tired from all that weight he had been carrying around, all alone. 

“I tried… I tried to control it but I couldn’t.” He spoke, his voice hoarse, scratching, like he hadn’t spoken a word in years. 

The darkness engulfed him, the sight before me looking like a scene from a horror movie. Grey, black, spots of white moonlight, and there, on his body, red – dark, dirty, and grim. 

I didn’t utter a word, just helped him get up when I reached his side. 

Quietly in the dark, I guided him toward the bathroom on our left. We walked slowly, his invisible weight pulling me down with him as well. 

I opened the door, helped him get inside, and then closed the door behind me as he stood there cluelessly, the broken glass still in his palm. 

I helped him stand just below the shower and turned it on, moving aside. The lukewarm water washed away his sweat and blood but he still didn’t move or notice anything, half in his trance and half alive in this world.

I entered the shower, the water almost cold now hitting me sharply as I removed the shard of the glass from his hand. It was cold, so cold, the air, the water hitting me, his hands, the glass; everything was cold yet hauntingly beautiful. 

He let it go without looking up at me. He let it go without a word of protest. And I knew what it meant – he had reached his end, the lowest point, he was done. 

I moved to set it on the wash basin counter behind him when he spoke in the thick silence. 

“I didn’t want to do it. I swear I wasn’t gonna fight.”

“If you’re going to lie, then you might as well just shut up. ” I whispered sadly, feeling older than my age all of a sudden. 

I wasn’t mad at him. I knew how those people were. I was disappointed that we both couldn’t control and got embroiled in a stupid fight with them. 

“Do you think I wanted to do it? Do you think they didn’t deserve it? Look at you, still helping me when I punched your dad. I don’t want your help.” He seethed, looking at his hands. 

I walked back toward him and said, “You’re hurting me, you get that? These jabs at me? They hurt me. But I’ve loved you since I didn’t even know what the word meant and I’d be damned if I left you now to your monsters. You are hurting me but that won’t make me leave.”

“Why won’t you go? Don’t you see that I don’t deserve you? I’m a mess and this won’t work.” He cried, his voice a whimper unlike I’ve ever heard.

“They hurt me and maybe they deserved it but I don’t want you to get involved.” I break down, tears streaming down my face. “We will work. This… Us… We will be together. Always. Why can’t you trust me?” 

I felt like a weight was pressing down on my chest and nobody could see it. I couldn’t breathe, I was gasping for air, but there wasn’t enough oxygen for me. I couldn’t stand on my own so I leaned into him for support. I have nobody on my side and this, him, I couldn’t let them get him too. He was mine, all mine, and I would protect him with all my life. 

Our foreheads touched. 

Slowly, he wrapped his strong arms around me, both of us and our clothes getting cold from the shower water. We were both crying now. The water and salty tears mixed, washing our pain away. It was disgusting yet comfortable at the same time – being together in this pain. 

Was I wrong for dragging him down in my misery? 

Was I wrong for liking that I, for once, wasn’t alone in this dark hole of my misery? 

I don’t know but I’m just glad that I am not alone, that I don’t have to put my feelings into words for him so he could see that I was bleeding. Because he was bleeding just the same as me. He knew where it hurt. He was feeling it. 

And that didn’t feel bad. 

Was I a monster for feeling this way? 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He kept repeating between his broken sobs while I kept saying, “Don’t let me go. Don’t let me go. Don’t let me go.” 

a dream and you

I came out of my room with my belongings clutched tightly in my hands, running away from them with tears streaming down my face. I put my pillow and blanket on the floor and lay down. But then, I got up with a sudden realization. I looked around me, searching for him. 

When I couldn’t see him anywhere, I got on my feet and walked to the other room adjoining the hall. 

In the darkness, I made my way to him. I have been here enough times to know my way even in the darkest darkness. 

And there he was – sitting with a piece of broken glass clutched in his hand. Blood trickled down his palm, onto his trousers. He was hurting himself. My knees gave out at the sight of him. Sad, broken, so lonely and devastated as if he was tired from all that weight he had been carrying around, all alone. 

“I tried… I tried to control it but I couldn’t.” He spoke, his voice hoarse, scratching, like he hadn’t spoken a word in years. 

The darkness engulfed him, the sight before me looking like a scene from a horror movie. Grey, black, spots of white moonlight, and there, on his body, red – dark, dirty, and grim. 

I didn’t utter a word, just helped him get up when I reached his side. 

Quietly in the dark, I guided him toward the bathroom on our left. We walked slowly, his invisible weight pulling me down with him as well. 

I opened the door, helped him get inside, and then closed the door behind me as he stood there cluelessly, the broken glass still in his palm. 

I helped him stand just below the shower and turned it on, moving aside. The lukewarm water washed away his sweat and blood but he still didn’t move or notice anything, half in his trance and half alive in this world.

I entered the shower, the water almost cold now hitting me sharply as I removed the shard of the glass from his hand. It was cold, so cold, the air, the water hitting me, his hands, the glass; everything was cold yet hauntingly beautiful. 

He let it go without looking up at me. He let it go without a word of protest. And I knew what it meant – he had reached his end, the lowest point, he was done. 

I moved to set it on the wash basin counter behind him when he spoke in the thick silence. 

“I didn’t want to do it. I swear I wasn’t gonna fight.”

“If you’re going to lie, then you might as well just shut up. ” I whispered sadly, feeling older than my age all of a sudden. 

I wasn’t mad at him. I knew how those people were. I was disappointed that we both couldn’t control and got embroiled in a stupid fight with them. 

“Do you think I wanted to do it? Do you think they didn’t deserve it? Look at you, still helping me when I punched your dad. I don’t want your help.” He seethed, looking at his hands. 

I walked back toward him and said, “You’re hurting me, you get that? These jabs at me? They hurt me. But I’ve loved you since I didn’t even know what the word meant and I’d be damned if I left you now to your monsters. You are hurting me but that won’t make me leave.”

“Why won’t you go? Don’t you see that I don’t deserve you? I’m a mess and this won’t work.” He cried, his voice a whimper unlike I’ve ever heard.

“They hurt me and maybe they deserved it but I don’t want you to get involved.” I break down, tears streaming down my face. “We will work. This… Us… We will be together. Always. Why can’t you trust me?” 

I felt like a weight was pressing down on my chest and nobody could see it. I couldn’t breathe, I was gasping for air, but there wasn’t enough oxygen for me. I couldn’t stand on my own so I leaned into him for support. I have nobody on my side and this, him, I couldn’t let them get him too. He was mine, all mine, and I would protect him with all my life. 

Our foreheads touched. 

Slowly, he wrapped his strong arms around me, both of us and our clothes getting cold from the shower water. We were both crying now. The water and salty tears mixed, washing our pain away. It was disgusting yet comfortable at the same time – being together in this pain. 

Was I wrong for dragging him down in my misery? 

Was I wrong for liking that I, for once, wasn’t alone in this dark hole of my misery? 

I don’t know but I’m just glad that I am not alone, that I don’t have to put my feelings into words for him so he could see that I was bleeding. Because he was bleeding just the same as me. He knew where it hurt. He was feeling it. 

And that didn’t feel bad. 

Was I a monster for feeling this way? 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He kept repeating between his broken sobs while I kept saying, “Don’t let me go. Don’t let me go. Don’t let me go.” 

A Dream And You

I came out of my room with my belongings clutched tightly in my hands, running away from them with tears streaming down my face. I put my pillow and blanket on the floor and lay down. But then, I got up with a sudden realization. I looked around me, searching for him. 

When I couldn’t see him anywhere, I got on my feet and walked to the other room adjoining the hall. 

In the darkness, I made my way to him. I have been here enough times to know my way even in the darkest darkness. 

And there he was – sitting with a piece of broken glass clutched in his hand. Blood trickled down his palm, onto his trousers. He was hurting himself. My knees gave out at the sight of him. Sad, broken, so lonely and devastated as if he was tired from all that weight he had been carrying around, all alone. 

“I tried… I tried to control it but I couldn’t.” He spoke, his voice hoarse, scratching, like he hadn’t spoken a word in years. 

The darkness engulfed him, the sight before me looking like a scene from a horror movie. Grey, black, spots of white moonlight, and there, on his body, red – dark, dirty, and grim. 

I didn’t utter a word, just helped him get up when I reached his side. 

Quietly in the dark, I guided him toward the bathroom on our left. We walked slowly, his invisible weight pulling me down with him as well. 

I opened the door, helped him get inside, and then closed the door behind me as he stood there cluelessly, the broken glass still in his palm. 

I helped him stand just below the shower and turned it on, moving aside. The lukewarm water washed away his sweat and blood but he still didn’t move or notice anything, half in his trance and half alive in this world.

I entered the shower, the water almost cold now hitting me sharply as I removed the shard of the glass from his hand. It was cold, so cold, the air, the water hitting me, his hands, the glass; everything was cold yet hauntingly beautiful. 

He let it go without looking up at me. He let it go without a word of protest. And I knew what it meant – he had reached his end, the lowest point, he was done. 

I moved to set it on the wash basin counter behind him when he spoke in the thick silence. 

“I didn’t want to do it. I swear I wasn’t gonna fight.”

“If you’re going to lie, then you might as well just shut up. ” I whispered sadly, feeling older than my age all of a sudden. 

I wasn’t mad at him. I knew how those people were. I was disappointed that we both couldn’t control and got embroiled in a stupid fight with them. 

“Do you think I wanted to do it? Do you think they didn’t deserve it? Look at you, still helping me when I punched your dad. I don’t want your help.” He seethed, looking at his hands. 

I walked back toward him and said, “You’re hurting me, you get that? These jabs at me? They hurt me. But I’ve loved you since I didn’t even know what the word meant and I’d be damned if I left you now to your monsters. You are hurting me but that won’t make me leave.”

“Why won’t you go? Don’t you see that I don’t deserve you? I’m a mess and this won’t work.” He cried, his voice a whimper unlike I’ve ever heard.

“They hurt me and maybe they deserved it but I don’t want you to get involved.” I break down, tears streaming down my face. “We will work. This… Us… We will be together. Always. Why can’t you trust me?” 

I felt like a weight was pressing down on my chest and nobody could see it. I couldn’t breathe, I was gasping for air, but there wasn’t enough oxygen for me. I couldn’t stand on my own so I leaned into him for support. I have nobody on my side and this, him, I couldn’t let them get him too. He was mine, all mine, and I would protect him with all my life. 

Our foreheads touched. 

Slowly, he wrapped his strong arms around me, both of us and our clothes getting cold from the shower water. We were both crying now. The water and salty tears mixed, washing our pain away. It was disgusting yet comfortable at the same time – being together in this pain. 

Was I wrong for dragging him down in my misery? 

Was I wrong for liking that I, for once, wasn’t alone in this dark hole of my misery? 

I don’t know but I’m just glad that I am not alone, that I don’t have to put my feelings into words for him so he could see that I was bleeding. Because he was bleeding just the same as me. He knew where it hurt. He was feeling it. 

And that didn’t feel bad. 

Was I a monster for feeling this way? 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He kept repeating between his broken sobs while I kept saying, “Don’t let me go. Don’t let me go. Don’t let me go.”