A woman (a married woman, a mother), empty herself, still decides to pour, and yet, everytime she pours, she is expected to do a little bit more... Everyday she wakes up with a new energy, new smile, To let the sunshine and fresh air in the house, she opens all the windows and doors, with the hope that may betoda, someone will acknowledge her importance, appreciate her efforts or may be just adore? But, everytime she decides to pour, she is expected to do, just a little bit more... The moment she thinks of filling her own cup, She remembers that the house till needs tidyin up, The baby needs to be fed, its been too late since she is up... Her cup stares at her from the corner, She smiles and asks it to wait again.. He leave for his office, she still need to rush and rush so that she can get some time to at least check her emails. If.. oh if the baby decides to take nap, after an hour long efforts, rocking, singing, patting... If the baby sleeps, she r...
A journey from doubt to self-acceptance, and the realization that beauty was never skin-deep. No One Ever Told Me I Was Beautiful—and, unfortunately, I believed them. For as long as I can remember, I chased beauty without knowing what it truly looked like. From the time I could understand the language as a child, I was hit with the most common “joke” in Indian households: "You’re not really our sibling—your parents picked you up from the trash, or outside a temple." Even as a kid, I wondered: If this were even remotely true, why is it funny? It was hurtful. And it came from those closest to me—my own siblings. The joke settled in my mind like a stone. I kept asking my brother why he said it. What proof did he have? Then came another blow: "Your complexion is darker than ours." He said it gently, like it was a fact. Maybe he didn’t know how it would eat away at my self-esteem. But that was my entry into the world of inferiority complexes. When I would get ready...