I open the app, and receive the texts from this guy who obviously was on the other side of the LoC, in what is called Pakistan Occupied Kashmir in India, and Aazad (Liberated) Kashmir on his side. I answered that I was on the Indian side, in Sopore.
As our friendship developed, we felt transported to our own magical world; where, in being our true selves, there was no denying the powerful energy connecting us to and the love we had for each other.
More often than not, we tend to fall in love with a depiction of how we feel about our selves.
You could say I get anxious when I feel people looking at me. Strangers sizing me up and down with their gaze. Desi aunties staring at me with slitted eyes, as if they know it is I that ravished the neighbour's boy.
Vincent and I met in person in the first week after I had moved to Paris. We met twice in that week and my heart was already lost to him.
Self love? How can I force my mind into loving a body that it cannot relate to. A mind that fails to find space in its vessel. It’s a terrible and violent act.
“I’m not a refugee. I am an immigrant,” you tell them but it doesn’t matter because you’re still different, and different is all they care about.
I always say that before I met Spoorthy, I did not understand what love was. Her love changed me, my anger, Casanova-nature, rudeness, and my all-time decision of not marrying anyone. I never used to believe in any relationships and always said that money could buy anything and everything. Her love taught me to smile, care for everyone, listen to others, and give other chances too.
Our first date was a dinner that lasted 3.5 hours; we were both amazed by how easily the conversation flowed and that our interests, values, and humour aligned so well.
She ignores my remark and continues to dream about her second daughter marrying an upper caste boy and raise sons. The last time I let the truth slip out, she laughed it off as a cruel joke.
It was not until one month later that we decided to actually connect and say "hey". But from that one "hey", things just spiralled into this wonderful chaos and we found ourselves entangled and drowning in this insane attraction.
Growing up, I always saw myself as British Asian. That was the culture that I was born into and existed in. But this identity conflicted with itself. British and Asian are two words that felt like two entirely different worlds, and it seemed almost impossible to be both.
Sweeping pieces of my heart from under the bed, the table and shedding the bits that get stuck to the broom is old. But damn, it felt so much worse after us. Your complex cage set me free and returning to you felt better than seeing the world.
i picture myself as being a replica of her - a carbon copy
it makes me believe that i am exactly like her and often even confuses me
Tomorrow might never come, my love. The sun might burn us down before we choose to sit back and think of what we haven't felt. Stop cutting away your lonely pieces before you run out of yourself. Bind your crevices with the strength of your tears and accompany yourself in your hard times.
I ensured to rush, run and engage myself with lots of people around the city. I never want a day to be spent without art. Somedays it is dance or drag or performance art.
As I watched Aamir Khan introduce the topic as a little “sensitive” for parents, I could feel my grandmother next to me widen her eyes and raise her eyebrows with concern.
the first girl i fell in love with had a shy smile, a just born style
and a profile of a life lived in black and white
see, for the rainbows in your pocket peeked out sometimes
I am not sure of my idea of ‘Home’, but I feel homeless at times. When I want to sleep for days, people seem unbearable, 'I don't see the point' of doing anything, my body aches, I feel I don't have any home to go back to and rest in my cozy bed.
Spreading smiles, and love to everyone I meet, I am a popular girl, you know, the bubbly and cuddly piece of happiness, everyone wants to have a share of.