Offended

 You speak your mind

I am offended.

You don't speak your mind.

You are spineless.

You have an opinion

Let me hear it.

Oh, wait, you don't like mine?

I am offended!

You identify as another gender.

That's not "normal"!

You are tolerant?

You must be spineless.

You like a dynasty?

You are one of them.

Colour, food, place, attire 

It's my way or the highway!

Your hobby is art?

Don't end up in jail!

Diversity? What is that?

Agreeing to disagree?

Isn't that for fools?

Look at me! I know it all, 

And if you don't agree, 

I am offended!

© Suranya

The Princess

She was the eldest princess of the kingdom. Her childhood days were spent making garlands with her mother, singing praises to her lord, lighting the lamps and reading the religious books. At times, she would play house. At nine, she started her lessons. Unlike her brothers, who went to Gurukul, her Gurukul was at home. Because, unlike politics and war, her subjects were sewing. Cooking, calculations of groceries and at times defence. Unlike many of her sisters, who loved their swords, she preferred the sewing lessons. She waited patiently at the jharokha as her brothers and father finished their meals before she could have hers. Politics and discussions never caught her attention. At fourteen, her father had declared the wedding. Arriving at the new home, called the royal palace, married to the crown prince, things didn't change much. This was a test of all she had learned. 

Each action was scrutinised. After all, she was the future queen. Some she passed, others she failed. On the first night of their marriage, he had made it clear. Her duty was the household. His was the politics. He had no time for love. After a few months of marriage into her first pregnancy, when she had started to fall in love with his care, reality hit in the form of his second wife. She realised she was never going to rule his heart. Alliances were important. She found solace in her children instead.

As her son became a crown prince, the mother realised two things. One, she should have been more attentive in defence classes. Two, power knew no relation. Only hunger. Her son was at stake. The worried mother had sent him into battles. He had come back with bruises that ached her heart. The country was in danger. With trembling hands, she had done the last tilak to her husband. Hugged her son before Saka. As expected, she had led the ladies to a fire altar. No tears or fear. As she faced the fire, she smiled. Finally. Freedom. You wonder why she doesn't have a name. Because no history mentions the thousands like her. But this untold story deserves mention. More than ones who won wars.

True Love

"It's just a misconception among people that just because it's rare, it's not true. Just because you didn't find one doesn't make it unreal. Some people in rare, precious ways do find the love you often call true." I looked up at the crowd. "... and that's what their love was all about."

I ended my story as the crowd appreciated with smiles and claps. Some of them, I even found blushing with hopeful eyes. I nodded and thanked them.

I got up to leave as someone stopped me. Newlyweds. Hand in hand.

"Your stories are amazing. Write ours someday," they said. I smiled silently.

"No. No. She only writes fiction." My friend dismissed them quickly.

I agreed with a nod.

"I only write fiction"

But, do 1? I stared at the happy couple hand in hand.

"Like this one. It's a fiction, right?" She smiled, adding. Was it? Someone in the crowd, perhaps, knew it wasn't. I had connected

S a lot of people and relationships in my life. Some in flesh and blood. Some in the pages of history. Some in my imagination and experience. Each of them made it to my writings. In some way or another. Fragments of their lives, bits of their saga, random people I observe on a long train or bus journey. They are all part of the stories. The characters often talked and walked like people I know or assume to know or muse on. They merged with faces in my imagination. These are all their stories. As much as the words are mine.

© Suranya

Day Dreamer

"Are you an insomniac?"

"No. That's a major problem. Mine is different."

"And what's the problem that keeps you awake all night?"

"I am a daydreamer."

"Umm... Okay and....?"

"You don't know how that is, I assume"

"Not really. Is it bad?"

"It makes me happy and sad."

"Together?"

"Yes. I imagine what could have been. It makes me happy.

I imagine what could never be. It makes me sad."

"Why do you do this then?"

"When you dream with open eyes, it really is beyond your control. Those songs, stories, pictures in my head, are all like small scenes of a play."

"Then you should be aware that those are just imagination."

"Well, I try. But sometimes even my own thoughts scare me."

"Why?"

"Because I sit in the darkness and I can hear his voice in my head. I smile. I laugh. I have a mental conversation with him..."

"What if you close your eyes and try to sleep?"

"Worse. I end up putting his face on someone I shouldn't dare to. I shudder like it's a bad dream."

"Are those images vivid?"

"Oh yes. His face. My feelings. The stare. The smile. Everything."

"Then you should perhaps tell him..."

"I know we are not meant to be. And it scares me to death because I can't imagine anyone else's face there. I have never put a face on the dream before I met him, and now I can't even get him out of it."

"Then why don't you confront your feelings? Why run when you should face them and face him?"

"And let my daydream hurt? No. I am good with my own illusions."

© Suranya

Gulaab

 Mujhe sirf gulab ke khusboo nahi, 

Kaate bhi pasand hai; 

Jab Phool murjha jaate hai 

Kaate tabh bhi chubhte hai.

Phool sapno jaise kuch der rukhte, 

Aur kaate haqiqat jaise reh jaate hai.

Kyunki shayed pyar issi ko kehte hai, 

Jisme sirf khushi ke muskaan nahi, 

Gham ka bhi hissa hota hai.

© Suranya