My body is a temple
My bleeding is divine
My womanhood is spiritual
In ways that an intolerant devotee like you cannot understand
So when you barr me from entering Sabarimala
Remember that you can't stop a goddess
Saraswati is wise but her rage is wild and merciless
Lakshmi will create earthquakes that will devastate
Durga will pierce your heart with her spear
Parvathi will leave her abode and run into the streets
Kali will destroy you in unimaginable ways
They reside within us
We will cut our feet on your shattered glass
We will shout till our voices become hoarse
An army of neglected women will create a tsunami
Till you're on your back, crying
Till you give up your apparent 'religion-saving'
Helpless, wailing
And bleeding

To those men who are always behind us, though sometimes we may not see them.
To those men who are too busy flying fighter jets to teach their daughters to make paper planes.
To those sons who will point at every aeroplane that skims the horizon to proudly claim, “that’s my father!”.
To those women whose hearts will return wrapped in the tricolour and chipped aluminium; Who will place dented helmets beside faded polaroids of days gone by.
To those youth who will break solemn promises- “I’ll come back soon.”
To those families that will stare out of windows, refusing to draw down curtains as they hope against hope.
To those men who can truly say the sky is the limit.
To those men who fly above us yet are so rooted to the cause of their motherland.
Those brave hearts whose faces are lined with sweat and determination as they kiss the ground beneath their feet before they embrace the heavens for the last time.
To the men who take every sortie with a last salute.
To the white saris and navy-blue shirts stashed away and medals hung on rusted nails. To survival and martyrdom and the presence of absences. To commodores and flight lieutenants and wingmen. To parades and memoirs and sacrifices and soldiers in the sky.
The Eighth of October is for them.
To those men who are always behind us, though sometimes we may not see them.
To those men who are too busy flying fighter jets to teach their daughters to make paper planes.
To those sons who will point at every aeroplane that skims the horizon to proudly claim, “that’s my father!”.
To those women whose hearts will return wrapped in the tricolour and chipped aluminium; Who will place dented helmets beside faded polaroids of days gone by.
To those youth who will break solemn promises- “I’ll come back soon.”
To those families that will stare out of windows, refusing to draw down curtains as they hope against hope.
To those men who can truly say the sky is the limit.
To those men who fly above us yet are so rooted to the cause of their motherland.
Those brave hearts whose faces are lined with sweat and determination as they kiss the ground beneath their feet before they embrace the heavens for the last time.
To the men who take every sortie with a last salute.
To the white saris and navy-blue shirts stashed away and medals hung on rusted nails. To survival and martyrdom and the presence of absences. To commodores and flight lieutenants and wingmen. To parades and memoirs and sacrifices and soldiers in the sky.
The Eighth of October is for them.

कुछ अक्स अधूरे नक्स रहे गुम
कुछ आँखें नम कुछ नींद हुई कम
कुछ लफ्ज़ रहे थे कभी अनकहे
कुछ जज्बातों में बेवज़ह कहे

कुछ धड़कन की अजब थी झनझन
कुछ मन की उलझन ख़ुद से अनबन
कुछ याद तुम्हारी कुछ बेक़रारी
कुछ हया हमारी कुछ समझदारी

कुछ कहती वो अपनी खामोशी
कुछ बेख़याली में थी मदहोशी
कब बात बात में बात हो गयी
एक दूजे में दिन रात हो गयी

टूट गयी एक कच्ची डोरी
दिल मिल गए चोरी चोरी
अब इंतेज़ार में दिन है गुजरें
तुम ही बताओ क्या हम करें

Lather, rinse, repeat.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Soak, wash, repeat.
Sweep, sweep, repeat.
Wipe, wipe, repeat.
Scrub, scrub, repeat.
Dice, dice, repeat.
Wipe, dry, repeat.
The tears that are good.
Pour, stir, repeat.
Open the door.
Serve the food.
Greet, greet the guests.
Smile, talk, repeat.
Say bye-bye, repeat.
Massage, press, repeat.
Yelp in pain.
Grab your abdomen.
Rub, press, repeat.
Let the sari unwrap.
Shake your head no.
Oh oh.
Run, hide, cry, plead.
Rub your stinging cheek.
Sob, sob, repeat.
Dab, dab, repeat.
The tears that are deserved.
Press your straining scalp.
Grab tight the bed sheet.
Groan, hiss , repeat.
Fake, fake, repeat.
Pain, pain.
Again!
Sore, sore, all over.
Go make a drink and then,
Massage, press, repeat.
Pick up the nephew.
Ignore the daughter’s lies.
Pat, pat repeat.
Put him down to sleep.
Sing the lullabies.
See your daughter writhe.
Writhe, writhe, repeat.
Kiss your daughter’s hand.
Feel her skin burning.
Watch your daughter weep,
Cry herself to sleep.
One drop down then two.
The tears that are meaningless.
Lie down as if asleep.
Twist, turn, repeat.
Wake up before dawn.
Now, you put on.
Red, green, black and gold.
Vermillion, bangles, beads.
Lather, rinse, repeat.

He unfolded his red turban lying on his khaat
Seeing me in my new ghagra-choli he bought
The evening sun setting in his eyes like a candle
While the stars sing as I watch him eat dal bhat
Tonight, I will be awake in all the quarters of the night
Watching your dreams tune away by the sarangi at my side
​

हिंदी से हो प्रभु का वंदन
हिंदी का करते अभिनंदन
हिंदी में हृदय का क्रंदन
हिंदी  से ही है स्पंदन
दिल्ली हो या हो लंदन
हिंदी महके जैसे चंदन

#hindi #yqdidi #hindidiwas

Follow my writings on https://www.yourquote.in/jayantee_khare #yourquote

The souls
of those great
men and women
Who suffered
And sacrificed
More than we can
Ever perceive
But never surrendered
Their iron will
to persevere and fight
Against those tyrants
Who brutally shackled
Their lives
And thus made it possible
For us today
To breathe
Speak
And live as per
Our wishes and needs
Will find peace
Only when
The rich diversity
Present in our country
finds itself
Unmistakably tethered
By the golden thread
Of brotherhood and fraternity
And our democracy
works for the welfare
Of every single person
Who resides within its boundaries
Completely Ignoring all differences
Based on class creed and colour
Of our skin
And granting all sentient beings
Equal opportunities
To blissfully flourish
Only then
We'll be able
to assert confidently
That freedom
We have indeed achieved