Scribbles

Q: How do I pay tribute to women whom I read? A : Write to them; write about them, one and the best way to pay gratitude to women whom you read. They write endlessly, even when they are caught in the busiest schedules they manage to write and survive. They travel so far, get jet l a g, their brain gets tired but they write. They work so much and still remain humble, thus I sat tonight to write about women whom I read. One day I want to write long hand letters to all those women whom I grew up reading. Earlier I read Simone de beauvoir and Virginia Woolf, but ever since I started reading Indian women, my life has become sane and insane in parts; both parts complement each other very well. Maybe I connect to them more .They are home grown crops, came from small towns and made choices and stood firm on those choices. They inspire to write. As I sit in classroom, walk on roads their words keep echoing in the mind. Their work tells you to look beyond the problems, petty issue

                                                                        Fiction She was always tied with chains of customs, rules and regulations of home. Whenever she travelled outside; she travelled behind a masculine figure -father or brother-a guardian to guard her movement in public space. Thus no matter how much she moved, chains pulled her back and despite feet in motion, she as a being was a stagnant creature. Then one day she got maroon colored steel body with two wheels, two pedals, two handles, one seat which to her was an ‘incongruous freedom’ instrument- A cycle. Every time she pedaled a chain broke that tied her to old rules of her life. Her body stirred  from head till toe. Hands that till now moved only in kitchen-to make tea, do dishes, rested now on handles –she was controlling her journey. Feet that were restricted within four boundaries of the home, were jauntily cycling down the streets. Head that was always bowed down in obedience, now while sitting on the

Amidst squirrels, butterflies and other things that lie in the park They sat beneath the goolar tree away from the city’s spree. They watched goolars bitten by squirrels & dancing butterflies over the flowers. They talked, giggled talked too much then fell quite and held each other tight. swiftly, sun in the sky turned orange Birds returned home chirping It was time for them to return too. While they packed the Empty lunch box and empty bottles and love unbound. squirrels came by and ate the left over pieces  of chocolate pie- they baked together  with love last night. She said bye His eyes left something half said . When she laid on her bed In the night and shut her eyes his wide eyes came close by eyes said something that created tumult and tranquility at the same time. She couldn’t read his eyes things that remained unsaid But smiled and she slept with an unfinished sentence in his eyes.

‘Humme samman nahi samanata chahiye This phrase echoed in my head, on my way to my hostel, after attending the screening of ‘In her words’ a film by Annie Zaidi on women writing in India and discussion ‘being woman writing woman’. I was accompanied by one of my juniors whose hostel deadline was 9:00 pm. It was around 9:30 pm. No sooner had we got off from the auto than she rushed to her hostel. It’s been a month since Jamia Millia Islamia has been in news for its recent girls’ hostel diktaks. Letter that lead to this, said girls would no longer have their late nights, which girls were permitted before –though the number was laughingly two. A few of my friend stay in Jamia Hostel and seeing them I know how difficult it is to live there. They give you good food, washing machine and security but freedom. What pushed me to type this was my own tryst with university hostel. I am not a resident of jamia Hostel and I am extremely glad about the fact. But this feeling was not the s