We are pronounced girls,women-in-blossoming at birth and so we grow up dreaming of love.Dreams whispered to us since the crib by sad-eyed mothers and weary-limbed grandmothers.Hazy tales of how love was a drop of rain they cupped in their hands last monsoon,gleaming a subversive silver on their brown skin before drying out of sight but always inextricably woven into the tangle of their souls.They whisper the stories to us because they are afraid of being heard,but they must keep them alive because they never know if it will ever rain again.

They hand us,with these stories,sad saplings of loss which we spend the first twelve years of our love diligently watering and pruning into adulthood,then carry them around looking for a customer-never showing how much our backs strained under the weight.

We have key words learnt by heart,but we stumble into love and not know at first because it is less fairytale more nightmare but we can’t outrun it because every fibre of our beings are on fire and we curse curse it straight to hell with us but never away because our tongues don’t trip in that direction.

Our tongues set to patterns (man woman love love) will always betray us and too often draw in men and men will turn into wolves at the blood splattered reality of our soul.Sometimes we do away with ourselves early to spare our lovers the blame.

We wonder where the mellow raindrops of our  bedtime stories disappeared,whether the salt dried on their narrators’ cheeks turned them faulty recollecters in retrospect.But we dream of it still and often dream that someplace sometime this thing called loving will cease to strain our souls and ache our thighs and callous our feet a little less but till then we count the colours in fire till then we say thank you please till then we are only happy our mothers won’t ask us why we weren’t more careful watering those magic saplings every night.


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