The Rebelle blog

Today, I came across this poem written by Laurel Chen after Gwendolyn Brooks. I read it first about a year ago and promptly forgot about it seeing how I was dealing with multiple factions in my life then.  I will briefly write about what the words ignited in me today evening as I read them. It's been quite a few days and someone from my family is angry with me. We cease to talk like we did before because we've decided to not talk about the one topic that was all which was left between us. And, so, here we are. As I read the lines,  Grief is not the only geography I know. I wish I could write in words and speak of the untamed ridges that befall upon me as I take in the hurt, anger, guilt and helplessness within me. I couldn't do enough for you, and it shall remain a deep regret within me. If grief is love with nowhere to go, then  Oh, I've loved so immensely. If only I could let you believe that things happen for a reason and why being like this is better right now for a...

There's a LIVE timebomb ticking within all of us. Isn't it slightly infuriating to be at the helm of such anxiety and nervousness? A number of things that could make us miserable, change our cheery demeanour to a sullen state of chaos, unable to comprehend the workings of this complicated system. We are all beings in a fixed mechanism of state and individual power. We are controlled by forces we live with daily. They include our people from our families, workspace, acquainting life sphere. The set of rules bogs me down each time I look at a detached view of this being. Since I am alive in this great era of science, modernity and opportunities, why does it still seem inadequate? Like every other parent-children disagreements, I am seething with one too over the most mundane and silliest of topics. Such is life. I think it was Anais Nin who wrote that "I am a series of moods and sensations. I play a thousand roles...My real self is unknown." How I so appropriately...

I was going through an emotional turmoil last night and used this blog to vent out my grief. Sometimes, well, only a few times, I wonder if my understanding of grief, misery and sorrow is the same that everyone goes through or I am severly meddling these confused emotions I can't seem to word out. Whichever way it is, I felt incredibly better after writing everything here, and I am trying to assert my mind into believing that THAT which hasn't happened yet and perhaps won't take place shan't worry me and cause me distress or unncesarry panic. I suppose I already should be alert at the use of such negative energy bubbles into my conversation here. I am throwing caution to the wind and deciding not to think about anything at all. My heart goes into a ballistic mode once I conjure too many multiple scenarios in my brain and then as if ticking on a machine, it starts weaving these elaborate sequences I deem fit only for fictional accounts. Hemingway wrote A Moveable Feast...

This story was an entry for a nation wide short story contest organised by Times of India as part of their Write India Campaign. Acclaimed authors in India gave a passage prompt and readers had to incorporate it in their stories. The story that I wrote was to have an intonation of loss in it. Since the competition is over now and the winners have also been declared, I can publish it here. I wrote it in April and the results were announced in last week of May. This was my very first attempt at writing a short story based on an outline. Here's hoping I did a fair job at it. The author prompt is the first paragraph of this story. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ It was the first thought that came to her as she woke up. He was gone. And, soon, this bedroom, the house in whose eastern corner it sat, and the tiny garden outside with its gnarle...