The unheroic heroes.

This man doesn’t know how to speak in English, can call you at 6 in the morning over a Facebook profile picture and is always concerned about the “family honour”.
But there is no denying the fact that if this man would not have been there, I now would have been cooking meals for some male-chauvinistic husband of mine in some remote village of Bihar rather than writing this blog over here.
He started working at the age of 12.
An age when we were watching cartoons.(at least I was.) And although he could not manage to get “modern” like most of us,
But made sure that his children get a chance to do so.

Now this lady..

Although it’s quite hypocritical for someone like me to write this,
But  while I constantly complain about her not being so open-minded, I forget to realise that she did all she could to eventually get me to become sensible enough to resent her conservativeness.
(Not that I have surprisingly started loving her, but that’s just a fact even I can not deny.)

(Can’t insert the pictures.)

But I know some people who give tutions to support themselves while I plan my next trip or hunt for a new pair of shoes on an online store. I know some of us who are battling their way out of depression but always wink at others with a smile, some who have had terrible heartbreaks but still believe in love, some who hate even looking at themselves, but still show up everyday and some who are always there to make it a little easier for the others.
They are all heroes.
It obviously takes a significant amount of heroism to stare back at life and letting it know that you ain’t gonn’a give in.

So, While idiots like me are busy finding bigger meanings, and fantasising about doing something really great in life, they are the ones who actually do it.
They are the unheroic heroes who never get recognised, never have a following count in several K’s, but silently in their “not so great” lives, they make a “really great” difference.

While we brag about how much we hate being average, they are the ones who remain average all their lives but actually are the real heroes.

So next time you find someone average or not that great!!
Look harder.
You may find an untold story of heroism.


Bitch please.

So this is about girls.
Girls who look like angels and can sweep you off your feet.
Girls who have an hourglass figure but are emotionally bloated.
The self-proclaimed princesses and queens who imagine themselves as god knows what unique snowflake.

As they correctly put it,
A “don’t you wish your girlfriend was hot like me” kinda girl..
The ones who are always trying to assert their sexuality on the expense of almost everything and everyone else.

Although I have no offense against beautiful women.
Because, (finally!) I am one too.
I am only talking about the ones who try their really stupid tactics and think that noone else understands them.

Not all of them are like that.
But most of them are.

They are the inevitable products of our contemporary consumerism.
In an appearance driven world,
Where the worth of a person is determined by the number of likes on their picture,
It’s not their fault if they grew up to believe that they aren’t pretty enough unless they are wanted.
I am sorry that they feel that way.
I know what made them what they are.
But that does not make me detest them any less.

Girls like that are suffering from some kind of attention seeking syndrome.
And they even get that attention too.
They are widely admired by
men who actually lack imagination.
men who can’t see beyond a pretty face.
men who never really get anything out of it,
but the false prospect of an impossible possibility always keeps them up..

Those girls don’t necessarily want to sleep with the man they are doing this to.
But they want him to want to sleep with her.
Or if you want me to put it a little decently,
They don’t necessarily want the man they are flirting with.
But they want him to want her.

The existential validation,
The surity,
Or I should say
The “entertainment” which they seek
is of a very peculiar kind..

Sexuality and Womanhood in the hands of those immature idiots
is like putting nuclear missiles in the hands of a monarch..
He simply wouldn’t know what to do with it.
He can only misuse it.

But I don’t wish to impart any morality here.
After all, Morality is not even what they lack.
It’s integrity that’s truly missing.

But then, it’s not a crime.
It’s normal..
All of us have done that at some point of our lives.
All of us like to be admired.
(even if it’s a second-rate admiration.)
I am okay with all that.
I only start having a problem when a girl like that tries to insult my hard-earned life wisdom by enjoying this silly notion that I can’t understand what she is trying to do.
So babe, DON’T EVEN TRY.
You have no idea whom you are messing with.
I’ve experienced far too much to not notice the regular shit you are desperately trying to sprinkle over here.

I myself am a woman.
I very well know that sexuality is a woman’s strength.
Flirting is an art.
Maliciousness is all right too.
But let me tell you this as a woman.
“Don’t ever try to shove your ass somewhere where it doesn’t actually belong.”


There are days when I love.
And there are days when I hate.

There are days when I live.
And there are days when I die.

There are days when I breathe.
And there are days when I choke.

There are days when I dream.
And there are days when I doubt.

There are days when I devour.
And there are days when I starve.

There are days when I forgive.
And there are days when I avenge.

There are days when I am content.
And there are days when I am hungry.

There are days when I stand.
And there are days when I crawl.

There are days when I cut.
And there are days when I dance.

There are days when I am honest.
And there are days when I cheat.

There are days when I am ignorant.
And there are days when I notice.

There are days when I act like an angel.
And there are days when I sin.

And I am a product of all those days.

I don’t know what I actually am.
But I am everything which I am not.

A visit to Taliban.

Okay that’s an exaggeration..
I am talking about my home.

I went home for my vacations.
And completely contrary to the expected expectations, it had been an exceptionally amazing stay.
All due to my persistent efforts and perfect precaution.

All I had to do was:
-Get up on time.
-Always say yes.
-Never mention a male friend.
-Forget that there is a cute device called cellphone.
That is how it worked. As easy as that.

My patience did lose sometimes.
But I still somehow managed to maintain my external composure.

I infact behaved so sweetly sometimes that I even started seeming like a stranger to myself.

Both mumma and papa were nice beyond belief.

My dear father, who has never been to any war, but is surely the bravest man who ever lived,
because he seriously could tolerate my mom for about 25 years.

My mom, who is a troublemaker from way back, was way more loving and way less watchful this time.

In order to impress upon my youthful mind the importance of homemaking, She tried to assign me some cooking assignments, at all of which I failed miserably.
She forecasted about what a wretched marriage i’ll make because I don’t know how to cook. And I somehow suppressed the urge to let her know that my boyfriend is actually a very nice cook.

Both of them remained completely unaware of the progress I’ve made in the last few months in becoming exactly what they told me not to become.

To my utter disappointment,
Noone checked my phone this time.
I tried so hard to clean it.

The only point of suspicion arose once when I was struggling to control my blushes after getting a text from my Mr. Boyfriend.
Seeing me so exceedingly delighted, papa came closer.
He saw Mr.boyfriend’s picture on my phone’s wallpaper and asked me who he was!
Finding no better answer,
I immediately said that he was a rock artist.
And to my own disbelief, he did believe me.

So, it was just a ten days stay which actually seemed like an eternity.
But this time, I actually enjoyed this tom-n-jerry episode.

An affair with the impossible.

Mondays are happy now.
But the roads out there are unforgiving.
One wrong move, and I can lose all that I have.

Yes, I am scared.
I am always scared.

I am constantly tormented by this fear of
not being enough.
Not beautiful enough.
Not interesting enough.
Just not enough.

What actually hurts is when I see someone better and realise that I could be there.
And the only reason why I am not, is me.

It hurts to be any less than what I could be.

It hurts to be so small, so insignificant, so ignorant about things.

The grief of knowing what I actually am, is unbearable.

Sometimes I sit and think:
“How could I ever do this to myself?”

I know that I have lost the most precious things of my life due to my own incompetence.
This realisation stings me everyday.
That’s a wound that might bleed for a very long time.
But I am in no mood to get any more scars.

No matter what I do,
There is a deep sense of discontentment that never leaves my side.

Although I have no desire for this immortal chase,
But this time,
I’ll run. I’ll sweat.
I’ll exhaust every single streak of my blood to protect the few things I can call mine.

You can call me a maniac.
But I am all up to be distorted to shreds.

I know that no matter how thoroughly I submit to the demands of this ever-demanding world,
It will never be enough.

But still,
I am all up for my affair with the impossible.


I know I’ve lost everything before I even begin.
But now, I begin anyway.
Because, there is nothing more to lose.
nothing more to fear.

I know something is wrong.
I feel broken somewhere.
But now the pain seems familiar.

Weird fantasies float around in my dreamy head.
And I make no attempt for them to make any sense.
Things like that help.
They help to forget that it’s hurting somewhere.

My misplaced confidence gives absolutely no hint of my inner turmoil.
My youthful steps have finally returned.
And I see my head go up as I walk through the doors.
That seems a lot like myself.

The child who was once afraid of the dark is fighting big demons now.
And doin’ it pretty well this time…

Pretty enough?

Finally have learnt to make myself presentable.
Or I should say that,
Learnt the art of selling myself to the world.

And it feels good to look beautiful..

I am not ashamed to admit that a stamp of approval do flatters me.

But it’s a little weird to see how easily I am submitting to these ridiculous standards of beauty.

That’s not exactly the pleasure I have always wanted.

I don’t enjoy living in a world where you can never feel pretty enough..

If given a chance,
I would surely like to crawl into a different universe.

A universe with a little better standards of beauty.

A world where I won’t have to take part in this mutually orchestrated dance for admiration..