womanhood

a work in progress

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Sinking in Doubt

I’m sinking.
Deeper and deeper.
And I’m trying to stop myself.
Everyday.

With 5 deep breaths.
With a little tidy here and there.
With spinach as a side.

Holding myself up.
Just a little.

It’s a wave you’ve gotta ride through babe.
You know you’re gonna more than make it at the other end.
So why you stressing?

I know Kholo is going to leap, sing and dance.
Not just float.

So why do I seem to obsess.
Worry.
Anxiet myself.

Let. It. Go.
Surrender.

Xx
K

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So Mad

I’m so mad at you.
At you all.
For not showing up.
When I thought you would.

You know what.
Life doesn’t boil down to a matter of life and death.
Relationships aren’t about that final moment, as if I’m hanging off the edge of the cliff.
And that is when you need to show up.

It’s made of everyday moments.
And those are the ones.
You needed to show up for.

That’s when you choose.
Me.
Us.
This.

Not when I’m hanging on the edge of a cliff.
Cause honies this ain’t no Road Runner episode.

X
K

 

(Also a post from last year, feeling all ok at the moment:))

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Care

Who taught you not to care?
Who taught you not to get riled up?
Who taught you that you couldn’t make a difference?

My child.
My friend.
My lover.

YOU ARE THE DIFFERENCE.

In your tongue.
In your soul.
In your mind.
Your heart.

Lies the difference.

So feel it.
Get crushed.
Get hurt by it.

The racism. The oppression. The sexism. The casteism. The world.

Get fucked off.
And speak your heart.
Speak your words.

Because my darling sweetest.
It takes us.
Everyday people.

Bringing our courage and our hurt to the front.
To make change.

With a conversation.
With a protest.
With an instagram post.

With every little thing.
With every big thing.

We are making a difference.

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The Garden is Overgrown

It’s funny in a way.
Normally, I would have planned it just so.
Someone to nurture.
Someone to water.
While I was away.

But I guess in someways, I couldn’t offer it.
Couldn’t care enough for it.

So now we’re back.
And it’s over run.
Run a muck.

Creepers twirling.
Passion fruit vines, crushing the curry leaves.
Tomato-less tomato trees sprawling over the concrete.
Dried, dried leaves.
Dead as they droop.

And I look at them and am reminded.
Of my lack of desire to nurture.

Where I was once so attentive, we had herbs and chillies, alive and tomatoes ripening in the sun.

I’m now barren in a way.
Nothing to give.
Nothing to slay.

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The Ultrasound

I just want to check your left ovary.
She says to me.
Her stick pushes and darts and my discomfort stays alight.

Her screen says so much to her. Blood here. Vessels there.
To me it says.
Empty.

I knew it yesterday.
I’ve know it for days.

This is a far cry from the sex I know.
I’m not allowed to have it for 6 weeks.
But that stick is akin to a sarcastic joke made to burn.

She keeps going.
Left right, in, out. Centre. Back.
I understand.
She’s doing her job.
Getting all the information.

Getting it down to 15 slides.
That I have miscarried.

That there is no life in my womb.
Just a teaspoon of blood.

I know this.
And yet.
I’m here.

Wondering why I’m letting her do her job.
So thoroughly.
When I need.
Out.

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The Miscarriage

You left me yesterday sweetheart.
Or maybe you left me before.
But today, I woke up, and you weren’t in me anymore.
I could feel it.

Unusually light.
The lightness.

It was a dark day.
I don’t even know.
How I feel about it all.

The thing is.
I didn’t know you.
We chatted, but rarely.
But my box was ticked.
Two kids.
Done.

How presumptuous.
And now I wonder.
Was it the future I’ve lost that I’m sad about?
Your Daddy was the first to think of your soul.
Of your journey.
Not his attached to yours.
Purely yours.
He’s always been the selfless type.

Me?
Tears in the night.
Blood neatly contained.
Bed to bathroom to toilet to bed.

No need for reasons.
It’s just as it was always meant to be.
Except we didn’t know.
What was meant to be.

X
K

//

PS – If you’re my friend and you want to message me – please kindly, don’t send me a whatsapp or an email or a DM. To be honest, I find this kind of a conversation can only really happen in person and I’m sure the next time we catch up, you can flood me with your hugs. Just not the emoticon version. With so much love. Xx

 

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How sickly are they?

Those who cannot love.

Those who cannot be free of numbers and control.

How sickly are they?

Those who hold tight.

Strangling in their love.

How sickly are they?

How sickly are you?

Controlling it the way you do.

Not enough.

Not enough.

Not enough.

It is never enough.

Perhaps one day.

When we are gone, no shadows in our trace.

Will it all finally be.

Sickeningly enough.

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Burn

Oh.
Us Indians.
Our forefathers taught us well.

We got taught, how NOT TO GET INTO TROUBLE.
How to lie low.
How to play it safe.
How to avoid the fire.

Play the white game.
Wear the white clothes.
Change your name to Tom. Or John.
So it eases the barriers down.

And we did it.
Before us, our parents did it.
Our forefathers.

We rubbed off the bindis.
Traded the saris for blouses.
Our houses smell like curry, so we change before we head out.
Exhaust fans always on.

Assimilating.
Apologising.

I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you apologise for the smell of your tuna.
I didn’t hear you apologise for your thick accent, the one I can barely decipher.
I didn’t hear you apologise for the skin you bare, so offensive to the culture I come from.

That’s right.
You don’t need to apologise.
It is who you are.

So why the fuck.
Are we apologising for who we are?

I blame us.
Us.

Me.
Me.
Me.

So now, when I order an latte, I don’t say “Kish” to make it easier for you to spell my name.
I say Karishma. So you learn it for the next Karishma.

I don’t tell my son to take off his rakhi, or hesitate to speak in Indian to him in front of you.
It’s not rude. It’s our language.

I cook up a curry storm and I invite you home for it.

We are us.
And the differences make us beautiful.
And who we are.

Erasing them, erases us.
And we are hollow inside.
Lost, confused and messed up.
Trying to be like you, but when we see ourselves in the mirror, we know can never be.

X
K

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Running

I’ve been observing myself over the last year.
Trying to find a balance of self care and work.

When I ran a design agency, I never really cared enough about my health.
I was trying, but perhaps, also running.
Running to keep it going.
To get somewhere.

And I realise now.
I’ve done the same thing since having launched Kholo.

Running.
From the fear of not succeeding.

And now, I’m on an island.
Taking a break.
Away from my son.
Away from the every-day-grind.

Finally pausing.

And I can see what I’ve done to my body.
All over again.

With the running.

Aru got agitated. And maybe it was unrelated to my running.
But maybe it was related.

So I think this time around.
I’m going to take it slow.
More trust.
Less fear.

More time for meditation and walks and maybe some hip-hop.
More time to cook a meal.

And less panic time for Kholo.

X
K

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Cope

Sometimes.
You need to step away from everything.
Everyone.

To cope.

It’s ok.
It’s good for you.

X
K

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