womanhood

a work in progress

Author: karishma (Page 2 of 57)

img_2344

Strawberry Nights

Come on over.
Baby come on over.
Give me 30 better yet,
Give me 60.

Make it us.
Just for a night.
We can do this.
Run with it.
A little wild.
A little sane.

On this strawberry night.

Let’s do this babe.

X
K

img_1541

My boys

Line up.
Line em up.

Girls all with their pretty peacock feathers.
How pretty can I look?
More than this?
Can I obliterate every fucking imperfection from myself?

So I’m good enough?

Bags under eyes.
Curves at hips.
Restless hair.
Thunder thighs that roar.

And not just that.

No seriously.
Not just that.

How can I ADEQUATELY meet your needs?
Want me to wear heels?
Don’t like my earrings?
Should I change?
For you?

Am I good enough.

We ask ourselves again and again and again.

In everything we do.

With every strand of hair kept in place.
Every diamond earring that says, “I’m So Appropriate For This”.
Every fake smile.
Every chunni pinned to perfection and every tummy sucked in with Spanx so we can breathe a little less and feel like the boys will love us now that they can’t see our tummies.

We think that is what it takes.
To meet the quota.

A room full of girls.
Who never made daddy proud.
Who never made mummy proud.
Who never made the bloody aunties proud.
Enough.

When are we going to change this?
When are you going to wake up?

This one is on us.

Wear what you want.

Walk how you want.

Love who you are.

And bloody hell, have that tequila if you want.

Be a bad girl.

Be a good girl.

Be a naughty girl.

Be a sassy one.

Be the one that makes too much money.

Or be the one who spends a lot of money.

Who cares.

Just be you sweetheart.

Just be you.

 

Xx

K

IMG_2150

Cold

I caught up with a friend recently.
We are talking over lunch and coffees.

She was telling me about decades of love.
She told me of stretching out her arms.
Of seeking love from her man.
Of seeking touch in the night.

And she told me of the response.
Negative.
Nada.
Nill.

“It was like a slap in the face, Kish,” she told me.

Tears welled in my eyes.
And I realised.

I come from a community which shuns physical touch between men and women in public and maybe even doesn’t relish it in private either.
I’m extremely private, I don’t even feel comfortable holding hands with V in a street where no one knows us.
I’m wary of physical touch, especially if I’m stressed.
I don’t reach forward and hold his hand.
I don’t lean on him the way he does me.

I can’t explain it.

And when she said that.

I thought of Aru’s childhood.
How I lift him, cuddle him, love him, adore him.
I snuggle into him.
I can do this anywhere.
Nose to nose.
Cheek to cheek.
He knows.
It in his bones.
That his Maa adores him.
I tickle his toes and plant kisses on his forehead.
I rub his tummy.
I sneak under his t-shirt to rub his back.
I am a physical mum.
I get the most satisfaction from his touch.

And I realise.
Vivek probably had that kind of love from his mum.
This regardless abandon of physical love.
Skin to skin.

Touch.

And here I was.
Loving him.
Yet rejecting him.

And I cry now.

Because I’m trying.
But I will never make up for the million times I might have rejected him.
Made him feel unloved.

Because my finger tips failed him.
My cheeks failed his love.
My arms failed his warmth.
My language didn’t recognise his.

And I try now.
More than ever.

To undo a stigma of touch.
To undo lessons learnt.

To love.
With reckless abandon.

As a child, innocent to norms, rules and expectations.

X
K

Processed with VSCO with a5 preset

Updates.Updates

So by the time you read this,
I might be on a different tangent.

But right now.
I’m realising how ungrateful I am.
This time last year, I hadn’t even fathomed Kholo.
And this time 6 months ago, I was sitting at a restaurant, telling my friend about how nervous I was that no one would appreciate the designs of Kholo.
I probably didn’t even have 20 followers on Instagram then.

But lately.
I’ve been obsessed.
Another sale.
God give me another sale.
God give me more followers.

And I’m ashamed.
I don’t even want to tell you this.
Because it’s down right lame.

But I’m so hungry.
Expecting Kholo to fulfill me.
To fulfill my need.

And I’m learning.
That nothing is ever enough.

I can either back off and enjoy the sweet ride of this beautiful business that is unfolding before me.

Or be a dick about it.
And piss off the universe.
And then cry and moan and whinge for nothing.

I think I need to choose Option A.

Thank you universe.
You have been so kind to me, even though I’ve been such a little shit lately.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Xxx
K

img_7239

Dear Aru (early May, 2017)

Hey Poochie,
I don’t know where the mind goes.
How to tame it.
Whether it should be tamed or understood.

But for you.
I try to be good.
Even if my mind is pulling me elsewhere.

But what is good?
Who defines and decides that?

One day, your eyebrows might raise.
As your start to unravel your maa.
As you start to know the world is round and
People do things differently to good.

And I guess.
I want to be good for you.
So you know it’s possible.
But I’m learning now.

That maybe it’s not.
Not all the time, for everything anyway.

So I guess.
If I can be accepting of you.
Then perhaps I’ve taught you a thing or two.
About what I need for us when it comes to me.

X
K

img_2344

Checked Out

I need you less.
Want you less.
With every step that I take further away from you.

With every check in, every boarding pass.
Every time I move an hour forward in time.
You are less to me.

As if a figment of time.
That perhaps never really happened.
Perhaps all those things I never really said.

So.
For now.
Home is where my boys are.

X
K

IMG_2114

From Here On In

From here on in.
I will scratch your name.
Off off everything we are.

I will start anew.
Seperate from you.

Ready for the day.
Ready for each day.

Where you treat me seperate from you.

This is not love you fool.
This is not love.

img_2115-1

Burnt

You don’t deserve this everyday wonderful.
Because you are broken inside.

Because you can’t let go.

Because you can’t be a man.
Shadowed by past and tribe.

You don’t deserve this woman.
This refreshingly, gifted, incredible woman.
Who seeks change and makes anew.

Oh no.
She isn’t yours.

Once in your palms.
Watch her slip away.

This is no love.
No way to love.

You didn’t learn.
So the only way now.
Is to burn.

img_1826.jpg

Schooled

I’d just like to take a moment.
To thank my husband Vivek.
For preventing me from becoming a man-hater.
For listening to my distaste in men, distrust in men, disgust even, in men.

And then pausing, to give me the potential other side of the story.
For reminding me that I married someone very similar to these men I so despise.

It’s simply that.
We’ve travelled a journey which has changed him and I.

And men are often whom they are,
Because they weren’t educated otherwise.

So.
MY WOMEN IN THE HOUSE.
PLEASE TAKE ON THIS ROLE.

Teach a man.
He doesn’t own you.
He doesn’t own your money.
He doesn’t own the surnames of your children.
He doesn’t own the style of your skirt.
He doesn’t own the sway of your hips.
He doesn’t own the food you have when you go out to dinner.
He doesn’t own your career.
He doesn’t own the relationships you have with your friends and family.
He doesn’t own the jewels you buy, or those that he gifts you.
He doesn’t own the right to tell you when to be home.
He doesn’t own a single inch of you.
Not an inch.

 

And it’s your role, to lock this shit into place.

To cause an uproar.

To fight the fight, be it little or large.

Stand up for what means something to you.

Live a life on your terms and not his.
Because if you keep playing the victim,
Don’t you dare go blaming a wasted life on him.

X
K

Ordinary

Being at ease in the ordinary-ness enables you to tap into the extra-ordinary-ness of yourself.

Page 2 of 57

Powered by Life, Love and Everything In between.

IMG_5190

Subscribe

Oh hi, please subscribe if you'd like posts to come auto-magically to your inbox.

I promise, no spam. xx K

Yay! Cannot wait to share more with you. xx K