She Is The Idol That Was Never Made, A Bronx Statue That Never Left The Sculptor’s Head


She wakes up everyday in a mire of ignorance. Her tangled hair flutters against everlasting wind that picks up pace as it approaches her: it could be a warning, it could be trying to break her fall. The woman, however, walks ahead, her eyes on the ground, her neck the shape of a sickle: no writer with any shred of dignity could ever describe her endowments, for she is the idol that was never made, a bronx statue that never left the sculptor’s head.

Dogs on the street bark at her–in veneration or in chagrin, we do not know. And under the giant willow tree where babies cry and mothers sing lullaby, she walks straight with her hopes torn asunder, a new leaf turned over. Could it be about her prince charming she meets on the bus, his white horse tied to a post neighing as the conductor blew his whistle? Could it be the windows that slap against her concrete-wreathed balusters as she lay whispering the name of her thimble-headed unborn baby? Or could it be the raging, tail-twisted little swimmers that still are floating in her womb that do not belong in her biology, winter come or gone, that were forced inside: like an extra swirl in floral patterns she draws everyday in her brahmin street with her brahmin hands?

We draw borders first, Meghala [name changed]. We draw them first so we know where to stop drawing.

Memories of yesterday flooded past her–the converging faces of men standing over her like a completed arch symmetrical from both ends. The soot-adorned corners of the dark room, the green-colored tupperware that had a broken base… the come-winter bhajans in the air, the croaky stereo-recorded voice of Unni Krishanan… the strange voices whispering her name. And she whispered his as she lay under the leafy-bed of great trees of which stories were written. Her hair fluttered no more, there was no wind for half-a-mile radius; her face was fresh, bright, with no sign of turmoil. She was breathing fast and any moment now she could surface, save only the iron-clad hands around her neck. She doesn’t reach for the surface anymore.

She doesn’t even make an effort.

The brahmin street were filled with brahmins yesterday. Men and women in different stages of sleep were in the shared stage of curiosity for the Girl That Never Came Back Home. Whispers were exchanged, windows trained open. Girls in their houses slept sound, their slumbers unbroken by their relief that it’s only The Other Girl. The widowed mother came running out of the house, shielding her daughter’s face, as though it were the face of the crime itself. She poured water on her head. Merciless and ice-cold. She slapped her daughter at every chance of opportunity presented. The mother’s insides were broken, like china that could never be mended; she felt excluded from the society she trusted, learnt to love. Where was Azadi when women of shared aristocracy giggled in curiosity? In a moment of blink, she had become Kashmir that never obeyed, her family stood by Bharkha Dutt with multiple muslim husbands, her nationality was now Pakistan: she and her daughter became everything that was anti-national. In the blink of an eye.

She palmed her daughter’s face as though it were lotus. The places where she had slapped had become ripe and angry. Her daughter’s eyes begged for more beating. The same human, the way that was born to her the same way as it had happened for a thousand years. Ten months. Ten grams of saffron a day. Ten o’ clock. Tenth street. The girl who was still a child to her, but a woman to the world. And the mother said this amidst whispers and maundering and fragility and with utter humiliation:

Oh, know this, my daughter, borne of fiery tongues to withered blues… Mayflower eyes and mellifluous music: Impurity is in your beating heart, the very blood that flows in your veins. With every breath you take, with every muscle you pull. Gaze upon a stone unturned, every bread you break. You are the walk of shame, you shall never make it to your grave. Oh, my daughter, thimble-headed, with ten fingers, ten toes, two eyes, a nose, little bosoms, eyebrows of wake, you are handicapped, nevertheless, for something is broken that could never be mended.

Oh, my daughter, my love, my hundred grams of bundled joy, not all is broken, gather ye rosebuds. For you will promise your mother that this news will never slip away. Not in your sleep, not during wake, sit until the rise of sun on this secret like it’s your lifeline. When tides come, don’t slip away; when rain comes pouring down, don’t buckle. For this is your rope of hope, smudge not. 

Promise me, you will not tell a living soul of what happened of late. Promise me, too, that you will not forget of this. Walk by the roses, with thorns under your feet. Yelp at men here more, no matter how weak. But do not forget, my earnest, for forgiveness comes hand in hand with forgetting. You shall not forgive, you shall not fade away. 

“Oh, sweet daughter, you can only lose, but it can’t be lost,” she ended.




The Story of Hindu Extremism: White-Bearded Sombre Faces


What is terrifying is wolf blanketed as sheep. Rain covering up for sun. Murderous rage for white-bearded sombre faces.

Ever since the dawn of September, the eleventh, several researches were done to understand the root of terrorism, why people believe in weapons to seek domination. Yesterday, Lahore was attacked by religious extremists, with the agenda of driving out Easter-celebrating Pakistanis, at least killing 65 people and wounding 600 other Christians or Muslims or Hindus that may have participated in the event. The message is clear: “If you’re not one among us, we will kill you! If you don’t follow our standards of living, we will kill you!” The attack has deemed clear that there is a part of Pakistan, beyond the control of the Government body, that wants to instill their rules by inflicting slaughter.

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Jawaharlal Nehru University: Yin and Yang


Only some stories are scary to write–difficult to venture. Like dogs afraid of dark allies. Like wheel-chairs down the escalators. Like fresh socks on wet puddles.

The sun had broken out onto a magnificently grey New Delhi Parliamentary premises amid the wire-donned men wearing their pressed uniforms. The men were standing straight, their back prepared to the scorching sun, their clingy vests to the onset of freshly brewed salty sweating. The car entered the premises–nothing surprising since the industrial revolution of the 18th century, since the crimson-flagged army men planted their feet in the brown sand. With the smell of beach and sand in their boots. Unaware of its cultural ebullience. Like broken egg yolk on a frying pan.

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An Approach to Dilemma Problems: Wiring Off-Grid Villages in India


While the protestors outside of a snowy day Wembley Stadium in London, UK, were shouting slogans to show their disappointment of his visit, Prime Minister Narendra Modi promised that in the next 1000 days, he will take on the task of bringing electricity to the 18,000 villages in India which currently aren’t connected to the grid. Debajit Palit of The Hindu later raised concerns over this ambitious project saying, “Is it just electrification of villages or to provide quality and adequate electricity to all households?” In Uttar Pradesh, for instance, three out of four households get electricity for less than 12 hours a day. In Jharkhand, only 2% of electrified households get electricity for 20 or more hours; 81% do not get four or more hours in the evenings, while 60% face three or more days of total blackouts every month. PM Modi seems to have complete faith in the moral obligation that he thinks that he owes to the poor, circumventing the economical costs that India has to suffer in fulfilling his promises. According to ministry of India, a village is electrified, if it meets all of the following requirements:

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20 Reasons Why It’s A Struggle To Go Through Teenage In Coimbatore


Coimbatore is truly an amazing place to be — for those people who only watch it from afar. It’s a place with a lot of cultural diversity and history, and definitely a home for many aspiring talents. But when it comes to spending your teenage here, that’s when all the hell breaks loose. I mean, look at all the hormonal and bodily changes, and especially when you are in the dilemma of whether or not you’re a human being, they give you the toughest hurdle to pass. Sit back and relax, because this post will let the world that you could have lived happier in Mordor than here; but there’s nothing you can do about it.

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Bahubali: Why You Don’t Find It To Be A Piece Of Garbage


Bahubali: Visualising the World of claims that the movie had demanded about 15,000 sketches and a pre-production for about a year, which is all jaw-droppingly wonderful, but what’s made the movie more spectacular is the fact they had broken the guinness world record of marketing by mounting a 50,000 sq. ft. poster in Kochi. What’s the success formula of Indian Cinema become? Has SS Rajamouli really produced a masterpiece that deserves all the respect and accolade it is garnering?

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Meet The Guy Who Quit His Job In LA, And Decided To Go On A World-trip

An Exclusive Interview With Colin Wright

Colin Wright

He likes to call himself an Authorpreneur — he is an author who thinks with the mindset of an entrepreneur. He is an ardent believer of minimalism; he dresses minimally; he travels minimally; he designs minimally. Colin has been featured in USA Today, The Jeff Probst Show, TEDx and many other major media outlets around the world. His blog, Exile Lifesyle, has more than 150,000 monthly readers. I found him on Instagram, and when I asked him, he readily agreed to sit down for an interview. 

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Why We Do Masters’ Abroad


The one thing I’ve always admired about Indian society is how visibly the trend is changing – what once was a frenzied state of “shifting to a foreign country” is soon attaining an equilibrial state, where people stop and question the very method. We shift gears to the pace on mass movement – similar to bunch of sheep deported to a foreign land in search of something no member of the flock knows yet – and evaluate options in different dimensions.

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