A Symbolised Life

In spite of living in a world which speaks about woman empowerment, gender equallity, equal opportunity etc, there still remains a little corner of the world which reflects the dark, unnoticed fate of women, whose lives are inevitably influenced by those around them. Here is a small reflection into such a woman’s world, drawing parallel with literary punctuations and symbols.

A Symbolised life


Comma (,) – Was what that was put on her when they realised that she too was a girl.

Brackets ( [ ] )- Were always used to enclose her within mind numbing rituals.

Asterisk (*) – Was on her mind (only) when she abused those bastards, before shedding those indiscernible tears.

Positivity (+) – A state of mind she perpetually faked.

Dollars ($) – A distant dream which never became hers.

Question mark (?) – An intimidating gift from the society.

Exclamation mark (!) – When she felt his sweat down her neck for the first time.

Semi colon (;) – A mature woman she gave birth to, from within.

Oblique (/) – When she got to make her first (obvious) choice- life/pretending to live.

Full stop (.) – Was all that she could choose after sixty years of a symbolised life.

Mr.Imperfect

He’s not perfect. No he isn’t.
His clothes never match
Lil’ rugged beard under his chin.
Umpteen phones sagging down his pants.
Busy-ness personified.
A d.j draped in simple clothes
Ironic to the pennies
chuckling in his piggy.
He never calls when he says he will
and when he does, he lulls to sleep.
Makes me wait for hours at the coffee shop.
Makes me text “:-(” and “X-(“ more than “<3”...
His forgetfulness will infuriate you
His laziness drowns you to depression.
He is not in the word of any laureate’s pen...

But beyond this, he’s special to me
For that word to update his wardrobe.
That “clean shaved” look he promises for tomorrow.
For switching off his phone when I demand
and singing my fav. slow track when am sick.
For being a spend thrift on those surprise gifts;
his endeavour to smile even amidst pain
just because I love his dimples.
For treating me like an infant;
securing me in his arms, tightly, so that I don’t trip.
For those “sholly baby. I love you” texts
For sipping a cappuccino he dislikes
just for me.
For those genuine tears when am in pain.
Those hands to hold throughout my way.
Those stern glances when am wrong.
Those silly pranks to make me smile.
Feeding me food when am not hungry
just like my mother...
(teary eyed)
He’s not perfect. No he isn’t.
His love is beyond a laureate’s pen...