Nobody's shit

From the gallery of the thirteenth floor, with my hot cappuccino, I filtered out every man in my society in an attempt to find my shade in that scorching afternoon sun.  As I gazed at the assorted personalities, I reminisced him in those melancholy memories.  Sometimes, we are just unfortunate, his wrecks make me feel like a bare arrangement of bones and flesh. When I slept with him the first time all I wished for, was to retain him. That day, I just wanted to preserve him, his words, his voice, the perfect him, in me completely.                       But now, once again, the grave reality snaps me shrewdly from these profound desires. As I pace back in disappointment towards my room, where I am obscure most of the times and I don't have to deceive anyone with a fake smile; I felt a cold sensation on my head. Eventually, it started raining heavily, and the falling ...

The wind never felt colder, surprisingly, I realized the sweat made me wet in those Reebok shoes. Perhaps I was numb or it was the surge of a violent turmoil that I could not possibly apprehend. It seems bizarre when just a couple of months transform you from a decrepit soul to an effulgent lady. "Hello! My name is Shaliya a divorced foster mother of two girls and I am currently the president of the NGO Womanhood and a theatre artist at Laila Hall, Pondicherry.  Rolling into the fading memories, I can regain a stream of jumbled episodes that build a story. I savoured every morsel of the rotten vegetable curry with the resilient chapatis until I perceived the stares of astonished passersby and sympathetic temple assistants. It was friday night, 8 pm, our incessant agitations pervaded me with constant tremors, he croaked about my wretchedness, then suddenly seized me tightly in his hands. I was broken eventually, piece by piece.  Saturday morning, he asked for a divorce, a ...