However much we think, Or hate the colour pink, Can we be fearless like you? Or be as daring as you? Do you think we’ve purpose, Like delicate flowers, a simple rose? To exhibit when it’s fresh, And throw when reduced to flesh?   Will it be a sin to do? Things that most of you do, Blaming, shaming and curbing us, We wonder how many of us you did curse! And why would you do so? Because we let our ambitions grow? Because we step out of veils And look fabulous in our esteem, Or because we love ourselves And try to look out of kitchen shelves? We dream to invent remedies, To sign important treaties, Pen down novels without pen names And excel in various games. Driving cars and repairing lights And guarding streets on dark nights And to speak, to debate, We want to do things and not wait. And we didn’t sink our hearts, Neither focus only on sewing skirts, Nor on only cooking for your bunch of kids, But we tried to help ...

I'm the sweet girl, keeping her head down Adjusting her actions, moulding her thoughts- To escape the regular, unknown frowns Which her ruthlessness could have brought.   I'm the rebel fighting for what is right Dodging my way through judgemental glares, Struggling to embrace the darkness of the night, Trying not to get caught in delusional snares.   I'm the idea you love to believe, Absurdly glorifying my beauty and poise, Until the reality of my imperfections make you grieve, Leaving me shattered with all my noise.   I am a rainbow covered in shades of grey, Ransacking galaxies, searching to break free, I cry, laugh, eat and pray. Putting together pieces of me. Bio:- I am Chandrika Das, a final year MBBS student who has always loved writing and still does, no matter how far-fetched my relationship with literature might seem. So glad, could put up my jumbled thoughts somewhere. Connect with us on social media:- facebook instagram twi...

SORRY, MOTHER My mother always told me to keep my head down and my mouth shut, For loud eyes and sharp words do us little girls no good. My mother always told me to keep my guard up against boys in my class who spoke softly and had nice words tumbling out In tenderness. My mother always told me to not walk through certain lanes after certain hours of the day, For the men in three-days old shirts, reeking of something other than sweat of the day’s work, always had something evil in their eyes, and more so in their minds. I was not even fifteen when I first realised that mother dearest did not know the best. My mother never told me of how evils are not restricted to stanky men from shady lanes. My mother forgot to mention how sweet words are not just a school boy’s tool. My mother missed out on how keeping my mouth clamped would never be enough. My mother did not tell me how evil can lurk behind clean shirts commanding respect, or stern voices demanding deference. And now, I don’t know w...