Story of Satire

Sanctity is an ambiguous spectrum of possibilities, Sometimes it's a blurry shackle instructing to behave, a fire to liberate and rebel at others. Truth be told, It's less of what we believe in, and more of what we surrender to. Sanctity dwells on submission. Submission provides a label, a safe shade. To some a piece of land holds the power, to some a stone and to some the pains and crimes. But, something governs everyone. And that something makes the difference. It traps us and tricks us into thinking that it empowers us. To defy being a part of some system within the web of systems, to stand as one, maybe it is important to begin with the worship of oneself. But how could I know, when I myself speak from the shade and safety of subscriptions?

Marriage is the union of two souls. But in our society it's the union of two families, that is purely based on compatibility of backgrounds. But what about love? Love and affection are never considered in an Indian marriage. Two people who are going to spend about 60 to 70 years together, are brought together by status, culture and practices. Marriage is a certificate permitting two individuals to have children and follow the norms. There are always norms. Women taking men's surname, men being the bread earner, children being taught the principles of the family, basically imposing the same monotonous cycle of life.  How can two people be deemed to be right for each other by a bunch of people looking for their own good? Is marriage an affair seeking collective good?  In our society run by parental influence and interdependency, love seems like a strange thing to base marriages on, although it's the most essential. 

Small and insignificant You and I, may seem Through the world Pain and want may gleam In this big wide ocean We are all lost There is no reward There is no cost The judgmental voices Will make us prink Watching our moves and steps Just stop and think You maybe buried deep But there exists a shore From the depths of the ocean You will Soar!

I casually scroll through social media, the platform of good food and smiling faces. It is easy when I am happy because then, I mentally make note of places worth a try, or sigh and scroll away the envy sometimes. But when I am broken and sad, slipping into painful spiral of hopelessness, the same smiling faces seem to be mocking me. I question if my life is where it is supposed to be, I almost start believing that the grass is not just green on the other side but  also that my land is barren. "Do they ever get sad?" I wonder. The steamy food, the colorful lights, the laughter and kisses, one after the other, about 700 people that I follow show no signs of sadness, I conveniently tell myself that there is something wrong with me. I just sit and stare feeling left out, dejected and lonely. These stories that won't last more 24 hours disturb my entire life story, of which a major part will probably be "sulking looking at strangers on social media". Then I ...

Last time I sneezed in class, I had one friend instantly saying "Bless you", the other one passing a tissue. But the last time I cried, both my friends helplessly whispered about what could be wrong with me and wondered how to console me. One thing we generally get uncomfortable with apart from PDA is PDE (Public Display of Emotions). It is not our fault though, we are programmed to pretend we are normal. And normal by societal norms is always content and happy. No pressure right? This "control" of PDE in my life started with a chocolate, I was tiny filled with demands, so I stood in front of the candy store begging my mother for a chocolate. She preferred teeth over germs  and naturally said no. I not possessing the logical reasoning that I have now naturally, cried. Then my mother shushed me through the streets made me feel like crying was a shameful thing to do. Then began the training over the years. I must say it's been a consistent training for 2...

India is identified as a mother, our beloved Bharat Matha. She is prosperous, glowing, knowledgeable, glorious but is she safe? I saw Mother India the other day, adorned in gold and precious stones top to toe, clutching her bag close to her heart checking if someone is following her at 7 in the evening in the cold winter roads of Bangalore. She has might, strength, power to fight anyone but she could not feel safe among her own children, these strong violent men who believe in their gender more than humanity. Mother India winced as a man tried to touch her, weren't these her own children? But she cried, not for her pain but for that of a girl who bled and screamed on a hospital bed, no one asked her for the details of the assault because all she could do was cry at the age of 2 months. 2 months old baby was raped? Mother India cries, as a sister is taken into the forest by her brother and his friends, as a student is called to the staff room alone, as an uncle gives a chocolate to...

Sleep my dear child the world is no longer ruthless and wild Sleep my dear child let go of the hanging tree there'e nothing you cannot bear Sleep my dear child under the stars You will no longer be called for fights or wars Sleep my dear child do not fight You will become the only light Sleep my dear child there will be no noise just rest to my fading voice For your eternal sleep that no one will mourn, because my love You were never born Sleep my dear child while I ponder over your life that I hope to save a life lost without birth or a grave.