Xenophobic

Image courtesy: Google

At the sound of the bell mom ran to the door, excited to receive my friend Kiran. We went to the same college in Bangalore and shared a room in the hostel. My mother was very fond of him and made sure she made his favourite snacks whenever he came home.

But things hadn't been so rosy three years back, when I had just joined college. While waiting for the bus from Palakkad to Bangalore, my mother showered lavish doses of advice that sounded like threats to me.“Befriend people from our own community. Beware of students who drink, smoke and eat meat. Dear Lord, I hope the ‘modern’ kids there don’t spoil my son.” she had said. According to my mother, people of other faiths couldn't be trusted. I had tried to erase the xenophobia that plagued my family but in vain. They were extremely orthodox and their blind faith made them intolerant to people whose lifestyle and faith differed even slightly from ours.

Precisely because of this, my friendship with Kiran hadn't gone down well with them. They pleaded with me to seek better friends who were ‘just like us’. What if he tuned out to be a naxalite? A terrorist? Our friendship received flak till the day I was down with chickenpox with no one to lend a hand but Kiran. While everyone shied away from helping me, fearing for their own safety, he had called the doctor, obtained the medicines and had nurtured me to recovery. My parents were touched beyond measure by this act of compassion and realized the folly of their baseless phobia.





Linking to 
 http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/
 http://ultimateblogchallenge.com/
 http://www.writetribe.com/write-tribe-pro-blogger-challenge/

The Vigilante

Image courtesy: Google

Here they come, the vigilante
to steal glances at our shared kiss
as they spray together in public
gallons of consecrated piss.

Here they are at a gathering
airing an endless roll
of senseless codes and conduct
which in life, is their only goal.

Even in a game of tennis
unsure of where to look
they ultimately settle for a skirt-
upon it a cover story they cook.

The vigilante never spares
a couple that holds hands
or ventures out on Valentine's;
love exists only in alien lands.

With not an ounce of shame left
they are here, there, everywhere
spend their miserable lives policing
preaching what to feel, think and wear.

Delusional custodians of culture;
much beyond their comprehension
is to tolerate, to include to accept
a peaceful amalgamation.




Linking to http://www.writetribe.com/write-tribe-pro-blogger-challenge/

My Home away from Home

Image courtesy: Tumblr

It is difficult to tell you my story without choking on my words and wetting my eyes. Nevertheless I’ll give it a try. I am an ordinary person just like you. I dream, hope love and want to be loved, just like you. Aged twenty, I live with a group of like-minded people whose stories are different from mine, yet astonishingly similar if you care to pay a closer look.

I always knew I was different. Of course, we are all different, that’s not what I mean. I was different in a way people found unsettling and imperfect. Have you ever wondered what it is like to feel and think like a woman but to be expected to behave like a man because of a cruel, sadistic game of fate? I doubt it. Well, I was intimidated beyond measure that I wanted to shrink to the size of a speck of dust and freely fly around unnoticed.

I may have looked like a man but I always wanted to be a woman; I am a woman. My parents never understood me; I feel they never tried to. To them I was a cursed lump of flesh that grew in my mother’s cursed womb just to bring shame and ill-luck to the family. Taunted, teased, bullied and assaulted, I was the tip of many a rude joke. The wounds family and society inflicted mercilessly on me still feel fresh and the pain, searing.

Unable to bear it any longer, I fled with no particular destination in mind. I began my journey of escape. I soon found people like me and I can’t explain the relief I felt to be taken into their fold, to be seen as part of family. They took care of my needs, taught me how to earn a living and loved me for what I was. I find it strange that my own family saw me as a stranger but a group of strangers made me a part of their family. This was where I belonged, before my soul lost its way and entered the lump of flesh in my mother’s womb by a fateful error.

For the first time in my life, I felt at peace. It felt good to be back home, away from home.

This post was written for the IndiSpire prompt
Write a story ending with "..... It felt good to be back home."#MyStory

Linking to : http://www.writetribe.com/write-tribe-pro-blogger-challenge/
and http://ultimateblogchallenge.com/ 

Palette of Colours

Image courtesy: Google

My white is your black

your strengths, I lack,

My fairy tale is your nightmare

about things you ignore, I care,

What I want to have, you don’t

become like you, I won’t.

The reason for my smile

brings you tears that run a mile,

What you’re proud about,

if I have in me, I doubt.

Your tastes are miles from mine

But I find no reason to whine

We'll accept each other,

in our palette add more colour.

Participating in the Ultimate Blog Challenge