I had seen him while he had incontinence and urinary tract infection with feverish delirium. He was later diagnosed with renal carcinoma. He had noticed a dot of vermilion on my forehead as a symbol of Hinduism. He was diagnosed with panic disorder. We spoke about mortality , life after death, many lives and many masters. It was difficult to let go of the fragile life threads, I saw his struggle. Fear of Thanatos pervaded the room and lights dimmed. He said hesitantly , I did not believe in ” Idol worship” but now I want to donate an idol of Vishnu to a temple in our native place , in silver …I nodded reassuringly. There was hope in his eyes. He continued , ” There will be no flaw in the idol , only then it will be fit for worship” I did not defend the flaws.

Book Review: Love Letters with Spelling Mistakes by Vaijayanthi Subramanian — A.R Sara

The author has eloquently and powerfully narrated eight stories with a rare and brilliant insight that combines fierce intellect, sensitivity and compassion. They are complex, nuanced and deeply stirring and manage to tug the heartstrings and draw deep sighs from the reader. Each unique story is a bold and uninhibited journey into the human psyche […]

Book Review: Love Letters with Spelling Mistakes by Vaijayanthi Subramanian — A.R Sara

How could you forgive? With out even forgetting …….

Forgetting did not help at all. I did not forget. I knew he still suffered from feelings of inferiority , I knew I still carried that air of  a trophy to him. Nobody else did any better. The others tried to subdue me in respectable spaces .  The others insulted me with out getting caught. He insulted me calling it love. But then men almost always begin with lust. It becomes a power game , when it is not reciprocated. It is a power game even if you reciprocate. After the ego is burnt down , very few beds remain cozy. Learning indifference is easy after years of tears. 

Moods Are Weighed in Milligrams

Everyday I am forcefed life ! This is so true.
And writing helps me digest it , yes ! Strikes a chord in me.


By Omar Hussain

It starts with a conversation. Turns into an interrogation. The room raging with homicidal silence. I squirm on this crusty velvet couch. Purple like Prince. She stares back. Blankly. Like every therapist in every movie or show. With her hair cropped high and tight, she prods about dad. Dares me to unload.

So I do.

It continues with the prescription. Turns into my new, unwanted, perfectly pained identity. The amber bottle lying still in abuse. I take the twenty milligrams contained within each green soft-shell pill, notorious Prozac, day after day. Smiling, she asks how I feel.

“Better,” I lie.

“Every day I’m force-fed life. Writing helps me digest it.” – the writer

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Why is it always speculative or imaginative ?
Till that also ends, like reality.
Will it ever end ?
There is no end to imagination
But reality has an end.
Imagination can also be killed.
She looked up from her note book , yes they issued search warrant for my imagination , used it against me. Did it work ?

Without Language.

There were so many reasons why I transferred what I felt and felt what I never felt. Similarities in suspecting me and suspecting me of every possible illness , a firm belief that abuse does not make a victim , instead a victim was always a victim because of a mental illness. Making me doubt my self , as though I was mentally ill. Reduplicating abuse , to make me say “No” or “Yes” ?
With out language everything is confusing.
I tried to make sense of it alone , but it reached nowhere.
It was abuse , it was violation of boundaries , however decently done.
Was I obsessed ? No. I gave up on trying to make sense.


I hurt you because
I did not heal
And I had the gall to see…..
I could not have pressed the
Benjamin button nor
Go to the Year of the cat
Turn back the time
And erase the Random Accessible Memory…
I could hug you over phone
You made that viral!
I wrote a poem to let you recover
You used it as evidence!
Sigh …or song none were spared……
All my strengths became vulnerabilities
I felt no lust for a man
For whom love was dispensable.
I frankly want to forget an affair
That never happened
Except in your head and
On my white dry paper…..
I have served the sentence
For writing poetry.