A Confectionery

Alice Walker’s story 'The Colour Purple" strolls through paths of love, violence, and struggle of her personal life as her central character Celie walks down a similar road. This essay is structured to look at the striking resemblance of Alice's experiences to that of Celie’s. The book is set in rural Georgia in the early twentieth century, and Walker allows us to experience through Celie all that she observed and experienced as a black woman in those times. Born into a poor family, farming was the main activity in Walker’s town and slavery and oppression made their presence well felt. All around her, she heard the black vernacular, which later became Celie’s language of communication with the readers. Celie’s story is also set in a very similar setting, where the lives of her people are plagued by slavery and oppression. A spirited kid in her childhood, Alice lost much of her enthusiasm after the fateful incident where her brother accidentally shot her in the eye. De...

When Radha and Sita together flared up the fire of a thousand morning suns, you rushed ahead like a hurricane wind veiling their glory in your clouds of doom “protecting” the world from our radiance. But When the young girl wrote letters to her Sakhi, letters, brimming with crimson rage and spurned desires you frowned, you muttered, you fussed. But her words, like stardust danced on in the midnight between your abject darkness, and our laboured dawn. You shoved us into the dungeons of your ancient minds, cold-walled, dark, desperate dungeons. Closets, as they’re called. The walls reeked of your displeasure, there was loathing in the air, and the lights, the lights had shunned us long ago. We had lived quiet, half-lives in the dingy corners of this world, bereft, desolated, abandoned. Led to believe that the loneliness was thrust upon us by the Gods. The same Gods which ask you to love, and give the same Gods who created us with just as much magic...

she'll tell you of flowers and scents and winds and drizzles of love and loss and time and people. but if you ask, she'll tell you, too of stars and galaxies and why she finds them fascinating. of economies and empires and far away volcanoes. let her speak, let her discover herself. don't try to fit her into your stereotypical moulds don't chisel away her radiance don't confuse her feminity for weakness.

There is a corner of my mind I avoid, The one where all the stale promises hide.  And no, they don't smell like good times, Or sunny days and rainbows Rather, they carry the scent of lusty time. ( Time, which hovers around our tender promises, like a venomous double-edged sword Time, the one we blame for every descent. Ha! Our ascents? of course, they're ours to devour!  Why should time take credit for such mean feats? )  Anyway, let's go back. Now, what shallow beings are we, That we make such delicate promises, Fully aware, that they will be tucked away, rather noiselessly, without much commotion, into that corner. Stacked into those large cupboards, where you keep all your unfulfilled promises and embarrassments, adorned with finery, as though they're something to be proud of.  How naively do we make those promises :  " oh, I promise!" you say, as your head jerks backwards and your face lightens up with a laugh A la...

painted skies, star-filled nights solitary shores sighing winds isn't that what your dreams look like? so today let us dream even if it is in broken bits even if we know what time does to dreams even if we know we'll outgrow them soon. even if you know the dreamer in you will slowly wither away And the dreams will only be faded tapestries in a crumbling room you'll long to find the key to so today let us dream of bathing in stardust even if we know we'll outgrow it soon.

My tears have dried up, And my breathing is shallow.  My vision is blurry,  And my body, bruised.  My skin is parched,  And the soles of my feet bleed rivers. These shards are all that remains of me. And they're strung; no, They are tied together rather carelessly.  They clink every time I take a step forward,  And disapprove of the winds of change.  And yet, somehow, everyday,  The universe tugs at one end of the string, As though saying, "Come on. Don't stop." I sigh, and roll my eyes, "Leave me here." "A little further, there will be light.", it says.  But we all know, the light at the end of the tunnel has no meaning,  if the tunnel is an illusion.  Sometimes, I feel like I am whole. But then the clouds gather,  And the breeze matures into roaring wind, And the skies tear open.  The thought washes off, Like dust, off windowpanes.  And the universe tries, ...