Uncontrollable Unbosomings!

Seema Jain has never felt "more alive and aligned". She expresses the same as she munches on her plant-based soya chips, organising her desk to plan the day. However, she was not always like this. Just 8 months ago, she faced sexual and physical abuse from her former husband. Traumatised and shaken, she did not have much to look forward to, except a painful, numbing feeling. This was before she joined Nimisha's mindfulness program. "I felt like I was swimming in the same sea of pain, but instead of being engulfed in it, I was looking at the pain with love and empathy, caressing the feelings like a baby," she says. 2 months down the road, she has launched her own startup to help broken wives heal, and is self-reliant. Meet the miraculous mindful warrior Nimisha was just 16 when she experienced her first panic attack. "It felt like I had no body, and only my nose remained to breathe," she recounts. In the subsequent years, she went through many panic att...

So I was this supposedly cool and definitely naïve pre-teen, and I had just heard of something called "electronic mail". I saw my daddy turn on the computer and check some fifteen hundred random people contacting him on this ugly layout which was called the inbox. And like a stupid daddy follower (I am the epitome of the observation method in psychology) I decided to create my own email ID. So one day, when Dad was out, I quietly turned on the computer and connected the internet which I had so keenly and passively observed dad doing, without giving him the subtlest of a hint. I used to sit on a mental high horse and considered myself very smart, the most intelligent preteen our dear planet has ever witnessed. And when Google asked for an email ID, it struck me: SMART PUCCHU! That is it. I am smart, and I love the lovely nickname my parents had given to me, bless them (sic). And that is how smartpucchu@gmail.com was born. Oh, how elated I was. Now even I could have im...

You You are the weather I want for eternity, You are the breeze that is always serenaded, You are an epiphany... You are the moonlight I always want to sink in and make it seep through my skin and bones and beyond. You are the rain that lets me float away in ecstasy Yes, you are the rain; the first drop– slight shiver And then it pours like a hurricane, and floods every inch of me And beautifies me, makes me glowing, radiant, gregarious, amorous... Oh, when did you become an ocean and drown me in you for perpetuity? You are the truest, purest, bona fide reflection of me, a mirror... But you are also a downpour, that becomes a vehement thunderstorm and rips apart the nests sitting peacefully on the trees. You are the face of intimacy that makes me florid You are that touch that gently caresses the locks and tangles that make my hair and make me shiver and tremble, like I just got an overdose of a current or something You are the eyes that fall on every crevice of my hea...

I feel asphyxiated When I see so much around me; My issue is that I want to be anything and everything that I see, hear and feel... I see poetry, and I want my mind to be filled with every word existing and make them string themselves in my mind naturally to create something enchanting, an elixir... I see academia, and my heart takes a giant leap into a conceived hole to feel the dearth of every page of every book of every genre that I have never seen, heard or felt... I see beauty, and I want to dismiss all imperfections and every flaw of every nook and cranny of my skin... I see people, I see discoveries, and I want to find things that are unfathomable to even fathom... I want every atom of every element of what makes others... I want to be everyone; I just don't want to be myself... What bedlam is this?

Reflections... I hate mirrors, For they s how images , But they can't explain reflections , For reflections are abstruse , And images are allusions of the overt, Why do we see things are we are And not as things are? Perhaps because we ponder over reflections, and for get who we are. Perhaps our re flections are no longer our own, They are defined by others... I covet myself .   This poem may seem silly, but it has a real deep meaning. Writing after a long time..do tell me how is it!

This has been happening since 5 years. The only difference is that now, I'm irritated and fed up to the core. I walk towards my home, at half past three in the afternoon. The entire walk is surrounded by no one except men. Men scratching their tummies as I walk by. Men staring at every nook and cranny of my body. Your lurking eyes silently make me doubt my school uniform. Is my clothing at fault? Tongues out, eyes ravenous.Your eyes are better scanning us than even an X-ray machine. When I bend down to tie my shoe laces, you leap with excitement. You are finally successful in making me conscious of myself and my attire. Maybe it's my over-sized shirt. Maybe it is my skirt, which even though reaches till the end of my knees, somehow arouse you. Or is it my belt?  People tell me to behave like a 16-year-old, to talk about " happy and merry " things. How can I, when I'm a prey to so many men everyday? More than me, it is my young sister that matters. She notic...