if ever there was a forever after, I seem to have missed the bus,
cross armed I stood as the happy train passed me by,
piles of riches and blinding shimmery gems they cast on us,
lured the comrades in, took hold of their guns and cracked open the sky…
This is a guest post byTHANE RICHARD
I recently read an article in Kafila – more like an angry, reflective rant – written by some students from St. Stephen’s College in Delhi. To quickly summarize, the piece criticized the draconian views of the Principal of St. Stephen’s College regarding curfews on women’s dormitories and his stymying of his students’ democratic ideals of discussion, protest, and open criticism. More broadly, though, the article’s writers seemed to be speaking about the larger stagnant institution of Indian higher education, overseen by a class of rigid administrators represented by this sexist and bigoted Principal, as described by the students. The students’ frustration was palpable in the text and their story felt to me like a perfect example of what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. Except Indian students are not an unstoppable force. Not even close.
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I don’t agree with the caption given by the blogger. I don’t think this picture depicts loneliness. There is so much serenity in it that it defines peace in solitude more than loneliness. I would have liked to be that person there.
You know what I think it is about ‘references’ and ‘recommendations’? They have just one shot at getting their foot in the door and then, from thereon they have to walk the whole journey based on how much substance they’ve got!
When I picked Kathryn Stockett‘s bestseller,The Help, it was nothing more then a reference to me from the 84th Academy Awards when they nominated it for Best Picture and presented it with the Best Supporting Actress award. Although I had given up on picking a book that I couldn’t put down, they hadn’t given up on me. The Help is a story about dreams, more than anything. Set in the town Jackson, Mississippi of 1962 it tells the stories (as opposed to story) of the women who live there each day hoping that their lives will change but never grumble about it. The narration of The…
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I have been following Tame SheWolf for a while now and I get her posts delivered via e-mail. I was sitting in a mall when this one got delivered to my inbox. I started reading it, and, for me, the mall began fading out into the background. This poem made me think of a porch... Continue Reading →
amarllyis 