Tuesday 30 June 2020

Living Sun : A Poem

In sipping dreams
from thrills of dawn
she prepares
for storms to come

In little escapades
& a slather of fun
she discovers
the meaning of freedom

In heaven's touches
of a living sun
she shoulders
moments of life's chasm

Monstrous Beauty

Flirtatious but snooty
in stilettos of eden
a monstrous beauty
emerges from her den

Narcissistic & naughty
vices of heaven
Nocturnal wiles aplenty
in a shadow garden

Hot & haughty
humour unbidden
hunts in dark gaiety
in alleys untrodden

Leap of Butterflies : A Poem

My gaze,
you unflinchingly hold;
With my mind, my heart wars
like a turbulence-ravaged sea

In a haze,
my besotted eyes behold,
a dance of dazzling stars
& butterflies leap within me...

Invisible Gashes : A Poem

Her eyes ask questions
that have no responses.

Her mute expressions
hold myriad nuances.

Her skin hides impressions
of numerous invisible gashes.

Image: pinterest

Yellow Fire : A Poem

lavender dreams
in trail of yellow fire

slow & steady
to magic skies choir

black picket fences
in solitude of desire

in escapade of eternity
silence, to acquire

Monstrous Beauty

Flirtatious but snooty
in stilettos of eden
a monstrous beauty
emerges from her den

Narcissistic & naughty
vices of heaven
Nocturnal wiles aplenty
in a shadow garden

Hot & haughty
humour unbidden
hunts in dark gaiety
in alleys untrodden

Bliss & Loss : A Poem

Blatant bliss
& potent pain,
the depth
of true Love
is limitless.

Mortal loss
& immortal gain
the journey
of a Soul
is timeless

Saturday 27 June 2020

Book Review: 'The Thirty Nine Steps', by John Buchan

This is the best thriller I have read this year. The fast-paced story, action and adventure is a breath of fresh air, especially since it reverberates with the flavour of a James Bond or Sherlock Holmes thriller, with loads of suspense to boot.

Richard Hannay as the protagonist charms us with his intelligence and presence of mind. Although some of the scenes seem difficult to believe, we are given quite plausible explanations as to how Hannay is able to do all that he does, while thinking on his feet.

One almost expects the action to become fast paced as the pages turn and is not disappointed. The beginning, where Hannay is bored gives us a hint that things are going to change soon in the story. A strange neighbor at his doorstep, who seeks refuge and gets killed in his apartment is only the beginning of Hannay’s adventures. His various disguises, train journeys and descriptions of Scottish landscape keeps us hooked to the pages. The part where he impersonates a roadman is brilliant in its detail. The political assassination emergency juxtaposed with Hannay’s neat, nail-biting escapades render the book a notch above the rest.

What is endearing to the reader, besides giving a realistic touch is towards the climax when Hannay repeatedly doubts his own instinct and ability but sticks on till the very end, because of a friend’s wise advice. One enjoys reading the spy-hunter’s mind as he grapples with the visible evidence and abstract reality.

This is a  short and sweet read that can be finished in a single day, which should not be missed by readers who love suspense and adventure.

Hope you enjoyed my short review. Happy Reading!

Tuesday 23 June 2020

Flow of Catharsis : A Poem

Oh, to breathe
fragrant divinity
in crisp, unblemished
zephyrs that hold
lessons in antiquity,
teach rugged rural lore,
an essence of living.

In the river, I sheathe
my raw liberty,
as sparkles in untamed
warmth of gold
reach in entirety,
each eager pore
of my blissful being.

Incandesce : A Poem

I hold
as dreams
reveling in glows
of sweet delight

Regal radiance
I behold
in beams,
dispelling shadows
in the night

of gold
in streams
revealing flows
of luminous light

Monday 22 June 2020

I Am...For You : A Poem

I am the rock in your life
a perpetual, steady brace
For you alone, I melt in strife,
to fight meteors, that we face

I am the blaze in your life
a fiery inferno, wild & savage
For you, I extinguish my rife
to cool burns, of my rampage

I am the storm in your life
a shower, with lightning & thunder
For you, I play melodies like a fife
to fill senses, with wanton wonder

I am the oasis in your life
a respite from weary travels
For you, I sustain nectars of life
to resuscitate, with magical marvels

Kiss of Passion : A Poem

Each kiss,
is a story
of passion
in intense infinity.

No promises
are out of reach
till our last breath
has left for eternity

Parting words
sustain stolen tears
to create folklore
in lessons of antiquity

In the Rain : A Poem

Unbreakable, my soul
with depths unknown
I find myself whole
new dream I own

I hate that I loved you,
& bore intense pain
Behold my healed hue
as l merge in the rain

Stalked : A Poem

a frission of fear
on a petrifying noon

his exclamation
resounds distinctly
across zebra stripes
despite cacophony
in my head
his eyes gleam
as the traffic light
screams red

a muted gasp
is all I emanate
as his face
wears a mask
of subdued triumph

a penetrating gaze
is all he throws
even gulmohars
wither & warn
as l retrace my steps
in absolute terror

his mocking smirk
is all it takes
for me to break
into cold sweat
he, my stalker
increases his pace
with calm confidence

a lifetime of vulnerability
on an exposed pavement.

Sunday 21 June 2020

The Creeper : A Poem

I nourish the root
with water & love
but the creeping brute
blooms high above

I burn, as neighbors
gasp in glee
& enjoy my labors,
my joys they see!

Finally, one day
I pull up a chair
& tug, as they
waver in air

Now, some bowers
above are bare
tho' some flowers
I agree to share.

Where It Wounds : A Poem

Touch me
where it hurts
It's the only way to feel

Where I weep
as you withdraw
into distance

Where frozen wings
of fragile dreams thaw
eaten in silence

Where no promises
worn raw
rip in impatience

Devour me 
where it wounds
It's the only way to love

Saturday 20 June 2020

I Paint You: A Poem

In every hue
I paint you
my love

to our passion

Oceanic depth
of affection

Renewal of us
in profusion

of our ambition

in diffusion

of our fusion

A Rainbow
of unison

of every hue
I paint you
on me, my love...

One Epochal Noon : A Poem

A frission of excitement
on an insipid noon
An utterance
rendered indistinct
by cacophony of motors
while our eyes locked
from several yards
as the traffic light
turned red.

A knowing smirk
was all I could fathom
on his rugged face
as I ventured a smile
in sheepish concession
An assured disregard
was all he allowed me.

Even obscure flora
basked in his attention
as l approached
with forced nonchalance.

A fleeting glance
was all he bestowed
with detached eyes
as his departure
tore at me
with ruthless agony
A lifetime of torment
on an epochal pavement.

I Paint You: A Poem

In every hue
I paint you
my love

to our passion

Oceanic depth
of affection

Renewal of us
in profusion

of our ambition

in diffusion

of our fusion

A Rainbow
of unison

of every hue
I paint you
on me, my love...

Friday 19 June 2020

Lightning dances : A Poem

The Night sun
offers smiles 
when moon rivers
glorify his reflection.

A summer storm
brews across the miles,
lightning dances
in the horizon.

In the Rain : A Poem.

Unbreakable, my soul
with depths unknown
I find myself whole
new dream I own

I hate that I loved you,
& bore intense pain
Behold my healed hue
as l merge in the rain

In the Rain : A Poem.

Unbreakable, my soul
with depths unknown
I find myself whole
new dream I own

I hate that I loved you,
& bore intense pain
Behold my healed hue
as l merge in the rain

Lightning dances : A Poem

The Night sun
offers smiles 
when moon rivers
glorify his reflection.

A summer storm
brews across the miles,
lightning dances
in the horizon.

Wednesday 17 June 2020

Nostalgic burns : A Poem

Nostalgic burns
steal her sleep
A new dream, she yearns
in reflections deep

Words of gore
make her pay
memories of yore
are here to stay.

To intense emotion,
she was always true
Only bygone passion
now left, to rue.

Her Pose : A Poem

Alone at dawn
she lets herself go
rhythm of a swan
in moves slow

Limbs balance
hair askew
eating the silence
she poses anew

She was always
wild at heart
craving pathways
of frolic art

Ocean & sand
in fluid flow
shadows of land
take a bow

Monday 15 June 2020

Book Review : 'Karukku' by Bama Faustina.

For how long can you live in disguise? 
For how long can oil and 
water stay mixed together?  
- Chapter eight, Karukku

I decided to buy the book after I first read an excerpt of a couple of chapters and got hooked, wanting to read more. The autobiographical account in first person was so enticing that I felt compelled to read the whole account. I finished it in a single sitting. It didn’t even occur to me to put it down and take a break. One knows a different book right away, and this book is as bold as they come.
This is not a paperback, it is an experience. It holds your attention from the first line and keeps you hooked till the last page. There are multiple aspects that are enchanting, disturbing, but most of all, enlightening throughout the book. Also, this is not a mere autobiography of Bama, the author, but a complete account of the lifestyle of her whole oppressed community.
If I must sum up the essence of the book in one word, it would be: Resilience.

Narrative and Language

Bama’s style of narration is simple, lucid and straightforward. The sentences are short and to the point. The credit to this may also be given to the translator, Lakshmi Holmstrom, who has ensured that the subtle nuances of the Tamil language are not lost in translation.

Our village is very beautiful.Even though you don't see much by way of progress...I love this place for its beauty.(1)
The mountain range right around the village. They are lovely to look at.(1)

What makes the read interesting are the numerous Tamil words that are left as they are, without attempting to find English equivalents to them. Although they may seem like breaks to the comprehension, the glossary does help to decipher them if required.
There are however quite a few words that are not found in the glossary, but that doesn’t take away the comprehension of the lines.


Since my book is the second edition, it begins with a prologue of sorts “Ten Years later’ wherein the author tells us that she wrote the book in 1992, which was translated by Lakshmi Holmstrom in the year 2000. She recounts how the publishing by Macmillan came about and ends the account in the year 2011.
This is followed by a translator’s note and then the Introduction. Thereby, by the time we get to chapter one, we already know what the book is going to be all about. However, there is still room for ample surprises that unravel layer after layer with each turn of the page.
The structure seems like any other autobiography, until we start reading the second chapter and move on to the third. We realize that the author seems to be repeating herself, going back to the same portions again and again. After a while one gets used to this and is not surprised when she goes back to the same part of her life all over again.
However, one aspect must be mentioned here. Every repetition has a fresh perspective to it. Each time, she adds on something else, along with what is already mentioned. Ironically, the repeats are as refreshing as new information. It's as if she is iterating the same thing again, but with a little more proof to the earlier argument.

I feel that the book is comparable to a flower, perhaps a lotus would be an apt simile to describe it. A lotus blooms in the muddy water, which may be construed as the  Cheri street, with many petals in it. It's as if we know what flower it is, except that it seems to be peeled petal after petal to reveal the layers inside. And each petal shows us a different shade of the same colour of the flower, with every skillful unraveling by the author.
One might think the author is mulling over the decisions she took in her life and keeps convincing her mind that she did the right thing at that point of time.
Key decisions like defying her parents, friends and all well-wishers to join a convent as a nun was a huge step. She tries to give us new perspectives each new time, to iterate why she took the decision.
So also, the reasons for leaving the convent are revealed to us more and more, as we move along the chapters.
This is like a mystery novel unveiling the suspense right at the beginning and going on to open new facets with every page, to keep proving why the culprit (the convent, in this case) or the perpetrators (the convent authorities) were at fault in shaping her decisions. This makes for a thrilling read, ironically even when there is little doubt, about the outcome of her actions.
However the last chapter is tinged with suspense because her escape from the convent is nail-biting.
We are struck by the sheer boldness of her revelations. We know right away that she is revealing things that few would dare to. After all, to take on & expose an institution as powerful as the church, being a Dalit at that, is no mean task.


The imagery of nature, especially in Chapter one is a sheer pleasure to read. The descriptions of natural beauty, the rural lifestyle, and the enchantment of the lush surroundings, especially the greenery and water, transport readers to a different world.
The noticeable aspect here is the complete lack of flowery eloquence or long drawn embellishments in the language. There are no big words, ornamental phrases or difficult idioms in the book. Easy to comprehend and read, the book sticks to events and accounts of her life and that of her community, in a matter-of-fact manner.
The irony is palpable. The author shows us the side of poverty that makes villagers find innovative means of feeding themselves. While this is supposed to make readers feel sad about the hardships, and perhaps feel sorry for them, it actually has the opposite effect. City dwellers who are accustomed to concrete jungles may actually feel wistful and rather envious of the joys of rural life. The sheer enjoyment of the children playing in the water, the little joys of villagers catching and frying fish by the lakeside romanticizes poverty like no other.
At the same time, one cannot neglect the actual message of the hardships of Dalits to even find a single meal for themselves and their families.
Some parts of the book are hilarious as well, especially the nicknames given by the people to some characters of their village. The antics of some of them to earn those nicknames put a smile on our faces.

Chapter two onwards becomes more specifically disturbing with accounts of oppression of Dalits and how the issue of caste never goes away, no matter where they go, how intelligent they are, or how hard they work to prove themselves. The accounts of how even the small children are forced to labour all day to keep themselves fed is heartbreaking. Also, the instances where the Dalits were automatically blamed for everything that other castes did, highlights of selective injustice.

You are from the Cheri. You might have done it. You must have done it. (19) 

Perhaps the biggest takeaway here is not about the highly hypocritical nuns abusing their power for gain. Its about how one can be hopeful about doing something one dreams of doing, only to have the society at large and certain communities/people in particular who never let that happen. Like I mentioned before, it is also about resilience of a vulnerable woman.
The book is powerful because so many factors of Bama’s shock echoes on the readers mind. The Christian nuns who claim love for humanity insulting lower castes, pampering the wealthy and even resorting to physical violence such as caning, pinching, knocking, etc. are an eye-opener to the larger public that only gets to see the humane side of them.

In certain orders they would not accept Harijan women...I was thunderstruck.
My community were looking after all the jobs like sweeping the premises, swabbing and washing the classrooms and cleaning the lavatories. And in the convent they spoke very insultingly of lower caste people.(25) – Chapter Two.

Chapter three shows us how strong the women folk are, compared to men. Bama’s instances can make any feminist hold her head high in pride.

And so the women managed on their own even without the men’s earnings.(38)

The stories where the women hid their menfolk from police brutality are innovative in their genius. Also, the bonding and unity of womenfolk during times of crisis is captures with heart-wrenching finesse.

…the women set out with the dead body and buried him themselves, in the cemetery.

Woven into this is the brutality of the police that sides with the community that is rich enough to grease their palms.

It seems the Chaaliyar folk invited …the “Reserve police” all the way from Sivakasi, butchered a sheep for them and arranged a feast….here we are struggling for watery gruel. How will the police or the government be on our side? (36)

The author’s lament about the lack of unity among the lower castes is a showcase of human nature.

Chapter four exposes the hardships of physical labour in two realms: Agriculture and Construction.

It is only when they fall asleep at night that their arms and legs are still.(55)

Her accounts of collecting firewood in the mountain forests as a child, shelling groundnuts for peanuts as remuneration, stc. exposes the rampant exploitation of Dalits by the society at large and the Naickar community and traders in particular.

But it was only by toiling like this without taking any account of their bodies as flesh and blood, that people of our community could even survive.(52)

More interesting is the misappropriation of payment given to women labourers despite doing the same amount of work as men. This rings true even in the corporates of today’s scenario across the world.
The third point is the exposure of exploitative, illegal child labour at the match factories.

Chapter five is different , in a refreshing way. For here, we see the fun-loving side of the community that finds innovative and stellar ways of making the most of what they have and still find joy of of their games.
However the ironies of a society flawed at its very core, both at the familial as well as societal level, are exposed in saddening ways. The games children played.

..we played at being Naicker. The rest of us would call them Ayya Ayya…work in the fields all day, collect our wages and go home.
Sometimes we played at being nuns and priests who came and gave us blows.(57)
Then we played at being married and…the husband coming home drunk and hitting the wife, the police arriving and beating him up.

To have impressionable minds think that men and women of the religious order beating up kids, or a husband beating his wife as part of normal routine life and marriage respectively, shows the level of degradation, as a whole.
She also gives us accounts of how talented some people of the community were, that harps on the underlying message that most of it goes unnoticed by society.
Also, the bribery of the forest official to kiil deer is punctuated more with the bribery at church in the name of offerings to Mother Superior and Church elders Bama minces no words while repeating the reported speech of her acquaintances, as well as church personnel.

Everyone came away complaining about his (Priest’s) miserliness.
And the Mother Superior had said: “Have you given me money to buy the holy pictures?”

The last part of the chapter makes us realize how far we have come in the digital age, when we read about the people of the village waiting all day, and  evening for a film that was never shown until midnight.

Chapter Six accounts of the convent hostel life, which is two-fold, showing us the abundance that comes with a price to Dalits.

I was uncomfortable to stay there although they fed us well.(73)

Bama stresses on the perks of education, even as she iterates the challenges of the community which is reluctant to allow the girls to study beyond a certain measure for want of finding a husband.
The disparity of wealth between the other children and Bama is palpable in many instances, but what stands out is her escapade into the bathroom to avoid the college day, for want of a silk saree.
Also the chapter exposes the luxuries of the church that is supposed to have taken a vow of poverty.

‘That is just a sham. The convent does not know the meaning of poverty.’(77)
‘It seems that our society is divided into those who toil and those who sit down to eat.’(79)

The rampant caste system that penetrates even the deepest religious orders of the church are exposed without any holds barred.

‘It is only the upper caste Christian who enjoy the benefits and comforts of the church’

Chapter seven is an exposure of the futility and farce of regulatory religious pursuits. The innocence of children who believe anything that is told to them is sadly hilarious. One aches for the child who preserved teeth and bones of an unearthed skeleton only to be stripped of its supposed importance much later.
The legend of the Chinnamalai mountain is engrossing in its simple narration. Bama’s account of Chinnamalai festival, the slaughters, the feast are presented to us in astute clarity of visual and auditory imagery.
Again the oxymoronic hilarity of catechism classes or nodding off at the obligatory Easter service makes us aware of the futility of violently forcing religious rules on little children.

Sometimes the sisters themselves would nod off. But could we go and hit them? Or pinch them?(99)

The author utters truth in a matter of fact manner that leaves no room for argument, irrespective of which religion readers belong to.

What passes for devotion nowadays is merely a matter of doing things out of a sense of duty. (101)

Chapter eight is a reiteration of the politics and hypocrisy, (also the jealousies, competition, arrogance) rampant at the convent, where the inmates take their three vows of poverty, chastity and obedience, but rampantly flout the first vow.

In truth the vows become a means of control and enslavement.(113)

Her account of luxuries at the convent, are a sharp contrast to the descriptions of the background she comes from. And this makes her exit from the luxury even more noteworthy.

Chapter nine is a relatively small but crucial one. It shows us the amount of damage society is capable of doing to an individual.
Her transformation from a brave forthright person to a meek fearful woman is profound, despite the perk of escaping what she aptly calls a ‘counterfeit existence

I feel afraid of everyone and everything.(120)

Added to this is her vulnerability as a lone woman in a ruthlessly opportunistic man’s world. It is also a further expose of societal realities, that hold good till date.
The book has a lengthy postscript, which ties up the loose ends, while adding on some more incidents to showcase of the politics of wealth and power at the convent. There are some nail-biting moments where the reader may feel fearful about the her escape from the convent right up to the last minute of her reaching safe ground.

‘By then, my mind was completely empty.’(136)

This is an autobiography that may progressively drain readers and leave them feeling empty too.


Overall, Bama has penned a book that is timeless in its ruthless revelations. Most of what she reveals is true, till date. While we would like to think that there has been abundant progress, there are many realities that we are aware of, even today.
For as Bama says:

‘It is possible to live in elitist style with money , education, authority and power and to claim that one is serving the poor.’(121)

Aren’t we privy to some of our elite politicians proving this time and again to us, till date?

Did you find my review of the book useful? Do let me know in the comments section.
Happy reading, stay safe, readers.


Sunday 14 June 2020

Remembrall : A Poem.

A remembrall,
my mind.

Cerulean ellipses call
crimson sky & sea entwined
reflections stay & crawl
timeless echoes remind.

Stunning hues of fall
in sands of every kind
Curving hills enthrall
in lands, none can find.
Image: vsspic

Saturday 13 June 2020

Drenched : A Poem

Timeless beauty
oozes delicate sin
holding ripples
enthralled in
naked breath
drenched in lake songs.

Tantalized trees breathe
in windswept whispers.

Sunset meadows
imbue sensuous curves
of love on the brain.



I Desire You: A Poem

I desire you...

Of raging glands
in wanton ripple
Of roving hands
a willing disciple.

Of thermal skins
in ardent stupor
Of carnal sins
a flaming taper.

Of aching consciousness
in resonant hue
Of seeking deliciousness
a fervent brew.

I desire you...


Thursday 11 June 2020

Puppets of Passion : A Poem

Droplets I held
amidst a drizzle
tears withheld
in the mizzle.

Colliding thoughts play
in chaotic vice
forgotten warmths lay
in lost paradise.

Ripples of illusion
acrimonious & artsy
Deep emotion
in a state of empty.

Puppets of passion
you & me.


Monday 8 June 2020

Water : A Poem

I fall from a cloudy haven
floating above the azure entity
I find silvery death in oblivion,
& oceans are enriched by me

I seek uncertain heaven
in sinuous ways of fluidity,
a consummate revelation
of existence, I shall always be.

Just Another 'Maybe' : A Poem

Take my hand, my love.

Let us journey along
creases in the shadows,
numbing the ghosts
of lost paradise
thru' that mysterious fog
between heaven & hell,
where windswept whispers
of wondrous yesterdays
retrieve forgotten warmth,
amidst hopes of
just another 'maybe'
between you & me.

Sunday 7 June 2020

Shadows & Light : A Poem.

Life is a combination
of shadows & light
an amalgamation
of sunshine & night.

Shine in the glow
Rest in the dark
When you fall, take it slow
& rise again, with renewed spark

Of You : A Poem

There's a song
that my heart hums
to the tune of you

There's a glow
that nourishes my soul
with the memory of you

There's an ache
that refuses to abate
in the absence of you.

I Live for a Dream : A Poem

I live
for a dream,
an unfulfilled ache
engulfs my days
devours my nights
in enticing mockery.

I aspire
for fulfilling fruition
of unaccomplished desires
May the whisper of death
never dare proximity
until life has done its share!

Saturday 6 June 2020

Book Review: A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf.

"A woman must have money 
and a room of her own 
if she has to write fiction."

I normally do not read non-fiction, unless I feel compelled to. The last book of Woolf that I read was Orlando. I am eager to read To the Lighthouse as well. A Room of One's Own, was one of the compelling ones, given that it is a long essay, penned like a fictional piece of nonfiction. However, it was the thematic motif that gains precedence over everything else: women’s writing.
The book is a set of extended lectures that Virginia Woolf delivered to the literary societies of Newnham and Girton colleges, Cambridge in October 1928. As I turned the pages, I could not help wondering how much was added to the original script, to turn it into the full-fledged book. I tried to picture Woolf on the dais, her notes before her, reading some these lines to the eager group of girls before her. I could not imagine her reading some paragraphs though, because they seem far too elaborate to be used fruitfully in a lecture.
The famous catch-line appears on page one itself, though not highlighted or quoted separately, it is the crux of the whole book. At the outset, it may seem like an exaggerated claim. But Woolf does go on to emphasize, analyze and explain her theory with great detailing.
While it may seem like a far-fetched expectation or assumption, it does make sense when we remember the time during which Woolf wrote. The position of women was better than it was hundred years earlier, when Mary Wollstonecraft wrote her books such as 'Vindication of the Rights of Woman', but was certainly not as relatively better as current times.
What struck me at once, is the fact that a hundred years down the line some things have not changed at all. Didn’t Rowling admit that she was forced to write in a cafe, because she found it more conducive to writing?
Another striking factor is Woolf’s observation that women used male pseudonyms to write. How far off is it today? One only has to look at Rowling again, and also the highly successful erotic series penned by E.L.James, who was thought to be a man for the longest possible time. Woolf did hit the nail on the head with her analysis of the situation.
However, one must admit that it is usually easy to identify the writing of a man which is different from that of a woman. When she tackles the idea of values, we may agree with Woolf when she points out that for a man, topics such as football, sports etc. may be more important than shopping, which he may trivialize. So a man may perceive a book on war as more important than an ‘insignificant’ one that deals with a woman’s feelings. This could be the reason that some books that women love may be boring to men, and vice versa.
While pondering on her core statement, women do need money to sustain themselves. Few writers are able to sustain a livelihood solely from writing. As for a room of one’s own, privacy that allows minimum interruptions to thought flows and emergence of ideas is a prerequisite for creativity.
However, even the layman would notice that these criteria are hardly exclusive to women. Men need the same luxuries to be successful writers. Having said that, we again tend to agree with Woolf, when she points out that poets like Keats, for instance, did face less hardship (in terms of being able to find a place to write in peace) than the women of their time, despite their poverty.
‘The creative power of women differs greatly from that of men. Ought not education bring out and fortify the differences rather than the similarities?’ (79)
The gender inequality and its role in writing of women is exemplified convincingly by Woolf. In addition to earlier mentioned factors, women tend to be hesitant or reluctant to write what they actually want to write, thanks to censure that is patriarchal, and then some. The society at large does judge women a lot more.
The fictional aspects used in the book are enticing in their essence. The creation of a sister for Shakespeare to drive home her points is a masterstroke. Judith, the imaginary sister’s story is heartrending, more importantly it is completely convincing. The scenarios gain more credibility when compared and contrasted with the life of Shakespeare, as described rather accurately by Woolf. The scenario is a timeless one, because one can imagine a similar series of events occurring to any woman in today’s time too.
To conclude, Woolf has touched upon core ideas that are crucial to writing, irrespective of one’s gender, namely financial security and privacy that ensures minimal interruptions. Additional aspects such as gender inequality and women’s literature put forth some important perspectives. Overall, the book offers ample scope for more thought and discussion.
Did you find my review useful? Do let me know in the comments.
Happy Reading. Stay safe, readers.

Thursday 4 June 2020

Midnight Shadows : A Poem

Kissing midnight shadows
in despondent frost
Missing daylight echoes
of his comfort, I'm lost.

Hissing shower taunts
& ocean sighs thrum
Dismissing deep wants
dismal aches, I overcome.

Wednesday 3 June 2020


Beauty is enhanced when
there is no competition
to shine more than another.

A leaf doesn't compete with the
flower to be noticed. It knows
that the one with an eye
for beauty
would never fail to notice
the lovely lines of its symmetry.

A little nourishment is enough
for exquisite beauty
to bloom.

A little encouragement is enough
for quiescent talent
to shine.

Demons at Bay: A Poem

Solitary dreams
bring hopes so near,
lost memories
seem far away;

Empty spaces,
fill up with cheer
I stand strong & keep
my demons at bay...

Storm : A Poem

An outward calm,
serene & still
belies twisted storm
in a raging drill;

Numb to the cut,
strong of will,
ultimate drug
of success to fulfill

Tuesday 2 June 2020

Finding Myself: A Poem

Wild child in me
in quest
for adventure

seeking sinuous ways
in tide pools & oceans
I venture

battling feral winds
& bamboo bridges
of censure

thirsting solace
the falling sun
is my quencher

finding myself
while I am lost
in conjecture

Monday 1 June 2020

Rebirth : A Poem

I am the Phoenix
A symbol of rebirth.

Lauded with praise
Condemned with envy
Torched in blaze
Raged & spent
Wounds burn
Scars disappear
Renewed from flames
Shook off the ashes
Healed, I arrive again.

I rise.
I glow!!

Tendrils of Memory : A Poem

Seeping ocean sighs
thru' surreal drapery
echo laughter & lies
like abrasive emery

dying shadows apprise
& spell streams solitary

flames & butterflies
flutter forgotten history
Her torn ties,
tendrils of memory

Wild Child : A Poem

A wild child, she


ghost walks
on spell streams
in dense forests

bamboo bridges
tide pools
water & rock

warm days
cobblestone nights,
a freedom of being

Inside our Heads

The best things in life happen to us, inside our heads.

Why do we normally believe that the things we get or events occuring in our lives give us joy, bring is happiness or provide us with comforts?

Happiness is subjective, different for different people. But does it always depend on external factors?

No. The joy ( or sorrow) is actually internalized in our minds. Think about it.

That holiday felt good because your mind said so. That pastry tasted heavenly, because your mind had instructed your tongue to crave for it & enjoy it when it was available to relish.

This is why some people with 'everything' are unhappy and some people with 'nothing' are happy. So, just as the best things, so also the worst things happen to us inside our heads too.

Food for thought, isn't it?

Your mind is the superpower. Stay happy, now, you know how. Inside your head.

Born To Be : A Poem

Who were you born to be?

Did your heart dictate
what you should be,
or did the world smother
your true destiny?

Did you chase dreams
or sometimes a fantasy
or are you a mere dying shadow
of who you're meant to be?

Are you the one
you were born to be?