Poems & Short Stories

Smile no,  a quickened surge of excitement, whatever but no coy word here i write As it shakes my firmament Maybe drawn to affection, first love that's right But why a need to validate? With a hug called as warm embrace It won't smoothen the crumpled fabric What if it might form a fabric of its own It won't justify the broken promises of the past What if it might make a new promise that our lifetime would want to hold It won't unfurl the pages pressed in between the books What if it might write a whole story on those pages leaving it untitled Why a need to validate it? With a hug! It won't wipe the tears of the eyes But it might live as a smudge of the mascara post tears It might burn down the ashes of the physical need What if it ignites the need of the soul? What if makes the heart stutter, Releasing the prisoned feelings and making it flutter What if it would form the lump in the throat that will refuse to die down Why,  a need t

I met my college friends recently and we finally sat in a café for much needed caffeine infusion because what we thought as a retail therapy turned into a retail fatigue. The café looked like a snug retreat with four of us flipping the pages of the old college diaries and reminding ourselves that how we have transformed over the years. Physically a lot but mentally we are still the crazy bunch who get excited with shopping expo and art exhibitions, meandering our way like those socialite aunties in Feb afternoons. Our conversation went on for hours and it finally rested on a question that strongly demanded me to write an entire page about it. “What is the first gift you gave yourself from your first pay- check, from your first job? Our coffee and cake arrived and so did the answers. Each bringing on their own flavor and reminiscing the memories attached to it. My eyes rested on my plain Jane gold ring. What is it about this ring that makes it extra special? Is it because

Mae Mobley: “Colored folks are dirty. Black is not good.” Aibleen: Little girl, who is teaching you these things? Mae Mobley: Our teacher in school – Miss Taylor This is the conversation that one of the protagonists has with the little girl she takes care of. Aibee   thinks, “What person out there don’t remember their first grade teacher?” Totally agree! Like Aibleen, my jaw tightens and fists get clenched. The Help is a gripping tale of what it was like to be a colored maid during the civil rights movement of 1960s. It talks about color discrimination and the heinous aspects attached with it, through the lives of housemaids in racially conflicted area – Jackson in Mississipi. “ Don’t judge by the color, love all the people” , is what this book determines to tell through the three voices. These bold voices take turn in filling the pages all along. Aibleen - with a balanced mind, Minny – the sassier of the three and Skeeter – though a white, pledge to make life easier

“I wanted to tell Mama that it did feel different to be back, that our living room had too much empty space, too much wasted marble floor that gleamed from Sisi’s polishing and housed nothing. Our celing was too high. Our furniture was lifeless: the glass tables did not shed twisted skin in the harmattan, the leather sofas’ greeting was a clammy coldness, and the Persian rugs were too lush to have any feeling. But I said, “You polished the etagere.” " The above text appears when Jaja and Kambili return from Nsukku, their Aunty Ifeoma’s house, and witness their place as dull and lacking warmth even though the house glistened like a palace. The warmth that Aunty Ifeoma’s house had carried during the days they spent despite having a nondescript house and where they prayed every day for Peace and Laughter. Laughter among all the things. Because Laughter was valued in their house everyday despite living with shortcomings something that Kambili hardly got to experience in own h