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.
You have two choices: poetic and factual.
The purpose of this post is not to be poetic. It does not dwell in ordinary hearts to heave and throw tantrums via words, as waging wars are in engagement, livelihoods at stake. The purpose of this post is not to be factual, either.
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.