TW/CW: graphic mentions of rape, sexual abuse and death & mourning

The death of my mother’s daughter haunts the city park. Autopsy was done, she was lying by the curb Her womb was blood Cervix torn Later she was killed Emptying the cervix that labored for her. The death of my mother’s daughter made me question Why was I my mother’s daughter? Why was I killed?

The dead body of my mother’s daughter Lies beside my motionless mother Not a tear Not a life In those eyes, Eyes that once had rage A rage I once Used to share.

Where was my father? Why was he not here? For I was a corpse lying Not the princess Whose world he conquered.

The death of my mother’s daughter Pained me more, as I lurked Like the gust of air. My life was lost, What I left was despair.

No boy, no lover No crime, not any violence A kill had occurred And an act unfair Who would you blame? Who would you name? Who would you call out Label him insane, He who never was Bereft to make the claim?

The death of my mother’s daughter Killed a few more Alive they looked While only I was who burned. No rage was cooler than that pyre No screams were calmer than those flames No life was better than those ashes

The death of my mother’s daughter, Quicker than the rape of mine. Would you call it a crime? Would you sleep on my shine As my body was agile Voice seemed fine, Yet Night and day Body and mind, Ruins of toils Chafing my loins, Ruins of toils Calling me to spoils.

The death of my mother’s daughter Was an end I desired For my mother perished Why a daughter Why a maiden Why no omen Why no evil Why her cradle Left so barren Why her husband Sobbed no spoken Why her daughter A tragic token, She wept And mourned enraged, My mother’s daughter left no trace For all the perils To her devil entrails Burned with ashes Neither evils nor remains No just crime could ever pertain.

My father’s daughter had died in vain A conqueror so vague Loss beguiled the pain in might Not life, nor light No home of mine My father’s daughter had died, And in death I couldn’t even smile.

আমার একটা বাড়ি আছে। সেই বাড়িতে আছে, আমার বাবা; রোব্বারে সে কাগজ পড়ে, সারা সপ্তাহ সে হিসেব করে। বাড়ির রান্নাঘরে ভাসে মায়ের বানানো মশলার গন্ধ এবং তার ঝাঁজে বিরক্ত আমার মা। আমাদের এই ছোট্ট তিন কামরার ফ্ল্যাটে সুখ শান্তি, ঠাকুরের প্রসাদের মতই সাধারণ মনে হয়।

না না! প্রসাদ বলতে সন্দেশ, জিলিপি বা পায়েস না।

আমাদের সুখ হলো নকুলদানা ও মিছরির মত গৌন, এবং তাতে নতুনত্ব বলতে বাতাসা বা কিশমিশই মুখ বদল। সহজে পাওয়া যায়। চাহিদা কম তো তাই। হয়ত তাই জন্যেই প্রসাদের মিষ্টত্ব না রোচে মনে, না লাগে জিভে। ডাল ভাত ও খিচুড়ির মতো স্বল্প সুখে ভ্রূকুটি দেখিয়ে পিঁপড়ের বেগে জীবন কাটাই আমরা।

আমার ঘরের ভেতরটা একটা আস্ত জগৎ। রাত্রিবেলা সেটা অন্যরকম এক ব্রহ্মান্ড। সেখানে আমি একা; আছে ঠান্ডা হাওয়া, অগোছালো বিশৃঙ্খলতা, চুপচাপ এক মুখ, মৃদু একটা গানের আওয়াজ, সুনসান রাস্তার ব্যাস্ততা, ও অফুরন্ত নিস্তব্ধতা। ঘুম ও সকালের রোদের সেখানে বেশ বন্ধুত্ব। অনিয়ম, বেনিয়ম, ঠিক, ভুল; সবটাই সেখানে আড়ি-ভাব। ভূত-ভবিষ্যৎ সবটাই সেখানকার বর্তমান।

বিশেষ কিছু বলার থাকে না আমাদের এই বাড়িতে। অথচ সুখের নকুলদানা বিচিত্র কোন কারণে, কমে গেলেও, একেবারে নির্মূল কখোনই হয়না।

In my head I have imagined you laugh twenty different ways, yet I am confused, exactly which one fits your cheeks and the tint of your lips, the baritones of your voice, and the tingles of my stomach. Astonishingly I am thinking all these at an hour so busy but I, I... desperately need to think about you or my head would explode worse than a jackfruit in summer and putrid than its smell. And then I am in front of the mirror, and I see my tangled hair and my bright eyes; somehow, I feel you would call me sweet despite my disheveled state. You'd clasp me tight in your arms and I would be gasping; I'd like it too. Our hands are red and far; and it's fine as poetry ‘cause how they fit together when we would pretend lovers, as if it was real and all the eyes knew what we were. Together we would feed the cats and now, how they roam around my feet asking for the stains, tainted, painted, on my hands, the red from your veins.

Body so numb, as heat is only to receive for last, it held; those hands that held you. Yet, Tonight, I can see you pale and blue in the reflection, along with my dolled face, a bun up high; and hands unstained, manicured in French. And forgetting everything, I run towards you, witnessing your existence once again, despicably trying to haunt this fine afterlife. But... You are endless, and the ghost of everything I slouched away from; pulped it into arson and burned it all. Yet, you stand in front of me, mosaicked in the shades of every good byes I ever swore... Yet, You stand in front of me, and I can't think of you. True like a corpse, as I remember you, just as we danced, every stain like the mulberry spots; ugly freckles of horror; you are a ghost and a story. Which I buried, bare, and banned. Gone, are you! So, with the smoke of my fireplace, let me extinguish; all the soul that stands dead to me. And tomorrow when I wake up, I'll eat my cereal with bliss, and breathe my name, all over this abode; smiling in Lolita.

Deep beyond the wild blue yonder There is no over and there is no under The stars they shine like jellyfish at play And the sun rises beneath our feet by day The Sun rays filter through the gaps in our fingers And there is a gentleness thereafter that lingers Until the Moon takes her rightful place in the dark Whereby gently through a lullaby upon an adventure we hark

Two dead animals lie beside one another One inside a cage and the other out One loved once, Saw the day once, Kissed the clouds once. And the other never breathed, Never opened his eyes, Never even spoke. The one inside sleeps in eternal peace. He's calm, soft, cuddly. The one outside had seen better days. The one outside could have had it better. All she wanted was water. All she wanted was air. The one inside never was alive and never will be. And the one outside once was, but now it won't be. The one outside was killed By the makers of the one inside. They took away her air, Her water, Her flight, Her feathers. They tried giving all of that to the one inside. But no matter how much they tried, He wouldn't bark, He wouldn't sniff, He wouldn't love. He would be loved by the young ones of them to come And then one day he would wear and tear and gather dirt Out of neglect of the same creators that tried to give him life. He will never know the taste of freedom as he burns in the incinerator. When his time is long gone, When he has overdone his stay. And that's when the one outside will laugh From high above. She was alive once. She breathed once. She would laugh in agony and anger, And disdain and hunger. She would know the wrath of nature and how it treats those children Who have overdone their stay. She would know it because she was her one of her children She would know it, because she is her.

Turtle Shells

Note: I write in one flow that ends up with alot of different things. I find solace in my writing format which is scattered and unstructured. Its likely that everything will not be understood or communicated well (grammatical errors that i missed), i will be happy to share what i meant.

I named myself Ellgie for a reason; and I keep justifying its meaning for me, the impression I had. I am aware its too much to handle if i say an insta reel gave it more meaning. Some of you might have seen this diary i have with text I wrote, “Abhiti, Ellgie/Ell, I will get more names and still remain nameless”. I am not quoting whats in a name. But the name Ellgie for me, comes from fear that I wish to cherish fully at some point. Presently its questionable if I own it; I am on a spree of claiming it. I am in no hurry to reach there because the reel i mentioned, opened more ways to look at it. https://www.instagram.com/p/C5WFMsjOPSN/ – Read the caption. Sometimes its easy to decipher nature's way of looking at you. The most non-judgemental, warm and cosy, like home. Nature is alot of things for me and not just plants and animals; its everything that earth is providing, beleiving in human conciousness and ofcourse humans are proving them wrong. What it did for me! Its encouraging me to ask for support, to say i feel lonely some days, to cry out in front of people if i want, express my displeasure and so much more as it progresses. I think of community not as a unit; i remember we were taught whats community and its everywhere you belong. I wrote somewhere that community and social work doesn't function together because for one there are feelings involved and other is limitation on what can be offered. Ohh! and another way to look at is how 'I and us' is in community and 'they' in social work. For me Ellgie is Algae (unicellular, there is so much diversity that they can grow on land and water, there is no ancestor, doesn't need another set of chromosome to reproduce – Wikipedia). Little explanation to that is alone works for me, i will exist, no lineage to carry-anwerable to no human and i can have cats without me producing them but they are still my kids. Every possible thing where i am not attached to anything, anyone – alone is accepted. Althought, what a turtle shell does, baffled me to a point where I was almost questioning, how can just ask for some person to be present when i am in need and vice versa. I can offer help when asked and i can ask for help. It isn't easy but i am striving for it. And thats where community works, not sure if social work really offers the same support of love, empathy, you are annoying but i care for you, showing up, not bound by labels or relationships. Names speak alot for our identity, mine generating from queerness in me and that surrounds me. You don't always know, what brings meaning to your existence. And thats where i see myself being hopeful for microseconds.

my god what a journey it has been. Recently, second season of Lady Parts dropped, and OMG what an explosive season this has been.

from the brilliant mind of Nida Manzoor comes the desi diaspora representation I wish I had in my childhood. it is brilliant because it doesn’t claim to be a portmanteau of desi culture, but it focuses more on the identity of the second and maybe third generation of the diaspora. they ARE british, but their baggage of being brown without pandering to people living in global south has been superbly executed. it is also the experience of being muslim. and the diverse cast has been able to put up something heartfelt that tugs at your heartstring.

the first season has been mindblowing. I have discovered it because i keep looking for offbeat series, and then Nida debuted her feature film – Polite Society, and to see desi women doing action while donning anarkali has healed something in me i never thought needed healing.

But Lady Parts is something else altogether. Western studios suck at making musicals, let alone musical TV shows, Glee is kinda okay, but by no means that can be used as a standard. But Nida, with her understanding of bollywood brings something refreshing and fun to the genre that often stays underused.

Anjana Vasan has been making big splashes in the world of western multimedia world for some time.we saw her in small roles in Spiderman: Far From Home, and in Sex Education, and post the first season of Lady Parts, she had important and main roles in the last season of Killing Eve and Black Mirror respectively. and if you are coming here after watching her there, it would be very difficult to place her character Amina, but once you give it a bit of time, she fits the role of girl-next-door, goody-two-shoes, boy-crazy Amina perfectly. Her comedic timing is extraordinary, and not surprising given her theatre background. and her narration keeps the pace of Lady Parts very exciting.

I have couple issues with the second season of Lady Parts, one of them being Mumtaz’s growth, it felt Mumtaz records became a success overnight, and had no issues getting a space, which from the past narrative for season one and half of season two, makes no sense. it felt quite rushed and unrealistic. the other part being Amina going back to the obviously toxic brother of Ayesha, Ahsan. i hope there is vindication in season three, or I will throw hands.

season two perfectly depicts the struggle of indie groups and musicians, and how predatory mainstream record labels can be. It has been already established the record labels have been fuck all to say the least. multiple legendary musicians has died penniless and/or on the streets because of their predatory practice. Even though it was a short stint, those practices are clearly visible in the few episodes. the outcome was quite expected tbh, Lady Parts doing something similar like radiohead or arctic monkeys fit perfectly as a British alternative rock group. Despite that, it was extremely fulfilling to watch.

It has pretty amazing queer rep too. both Ayesha and Saira are queer, and it is clearly visible there. Ayesha’s very lesbian relationship has progressed quite a lot, and the interpersonal struggles have started to bubble up. I expect to see more of that in the coming seasons. i can’t help but feel that Saira would be trans masc adjacent, and i think that would be amazing avenue for Lady Parts to explore. a tboy from the diaspora would also be one of the first representations in western media.

i want more of Lady Parts, and i’m not satiated enough. i want more episodes too, and i want more shows featuring the struggles of diaspora in different formats, like Lady Parts, or Man Like Mobeen. tbh, kinda would love to see Guz Khan or Shazad Latif in Lady Parts hehe. would be pretty amazing.

fuck you and your money

I wanna write without giving a fuck about grammar I wanna use wordplay that doesn't make sense to the stupid ones I wanna write and post without seeking approval. But perhaps, some validation.

I wanna write as if I'm freeing every part of myself As if I'm reborn and i see everything with a pair of new eyes

But I'm stuck in a cabin With colleagues that are as great as the copies I write With a salary that lets me shop and eat well With people around me that are passive aggressive And I feel like a clueless dice Rolled around with flick of a hand That has no idea about the way it affects the dice.

I wanna post about things i see all around everyday I wanna write about things that ignite me The fire so bright and blazing that it doesn't let me sleep Until i put it out with a paper Full of my writings

I'm so sad I wish I were not 21.

I'm so anxious I wish I didn't have a job

I'm so stupid For someone with a job in writing

I'm so clueless For a girl in marketing

Selling lies with her words

That costs her sleep and a blind eye Towards all the shit the world is going through now

Take me back to the time when you were just an alphabet

Its bizarre.

I had no idea a simple letter, a mere alphabet, would hold this much volume in my letters.

You have no idea either. Probably never will.

I miss back when L was just an alphabet. Now it occupies more than half of my notes, my patterns to the folders of you, the passwords to my door, my heart.

And while you're just a kilometre away from me, i can't help but think what will happen if I just go up to the office in my pyjamas and talk with you about what's kept you up there for so long.

You'll ask how I got to leave so early and I'll tell you all about my day. Even the anxiety attacks too.

We'll go to your favourite spot for dinner, mine for dessert. And I'll come back to my hostel in that horrid bike of yours, but enjoy the ride. My hands in your hair. Yours on my hips. Ah, I'm a hopeless romantic. And a tortured poet.

But if you asked, said come, let's go. I'll leave all my half burnt writings, my clothes with your thoughts woven in them, my books with your name on them, I'll leave it all and blindly follow you. For you're the fire, I'm just a stupid moth.

Seriously though, what would you do if I came right this instant to the office?

Hi, I am Alo.

I am a 20-something trans Bengali butch, living in Kolkata, India. We are an endangered species.

I ramble about books and media and representation and other seemingly ~asinine~ things that people have told me are frivolous pursuits. I use dating apps to talk about eco-feminism and intersectionality with other queer desi people, as there is no gay bar in my neighbourhood that caters to middle-class socially anxious trans sapphic folk like me. I also like writing love poetry and melancholic, slightly wistful romances about Bengali girls in love and Bengali trans queer kids in Catholic School.

I feel like I have been given a key to Pandora's box with this blog, and thus, my friend has unleashed a monster. You will be subject to my poetry, and you WILL read my opinions. I hope you will listen to what I have to say. Sometimes, my ramblings might even make sense.

Maybe i speak, maybe i die

Hey L,

I'm on a train and I'm thinking of you.

And I want to tell you what will happen if i decide to be brave.

I'd start off by asking you out for a tea, coffee for you? Whichever you prefer. And I will ask you to continue what you were saying when I was pressed up against you, no- the first time.

You barely spoke the second time. Which by the way, will be my next question.

I'd ask all about your lessons, little wins, failures, your first love, your friends back in college and school. And if you still talk to any of them.

I'd then ask how many siblings you have. Are they cunning like mine or sweet like the ones that came for me, but from another mother? I'd ask you about your parents. Are they typical like mine or are they whatever I'm imagining right this instant.

I'd then ask about what hurt you the most when you were a child. Because if there is one thing I find relatable among people, it's their pain. You see, this will help us get closer. And i get to prove myself that I'm not a coward anymore.

I'd ask you about what kind of business you're interested in. And while I ask you this, I'll probably get lost in the stories I'm spinning of both of us in my mind. For you're great at whatever you do and I will sit with you and admire each of your successes and failures. Perhaps we'd retire on a nice farm back at home and we'll sit on our balconies sipping something sweet.

After this story ends, I'd ask you what kind of people you've met. Strangers, friends, relatives. But speak of only your favourite ones. Because if I am not what I am now I'd have written poems about my favourite people that'd stun the poets.

I'd ask you too many questions in between and i sometimes get lost in myself. So feel free to slap me. Or kiss me. Whichever you prefer.

I'd then tell you about the moments I was being sneaky for you. When I asked little details of you nonchalantly. Pretending as if that's the last thing that I care about. I'd tell you it was the most difficult moment to not care.

I'd tell you about the times i kept watching your photos discreetly on screens. When you were right beside me but was too shy to look you in the eye. I'd tell you how once again I realised that i should never choose acting as my career even if my life depends on it.

And if i think this seems like a journey that'd lead to a destination i want to cherish, I'd show you this and ask you out again.

What a waste this would be if you turn out to be a Man. I hope you would just be you.

The Politics of being Gender

If you have been in left-leaning trans and queer online circles then you most probably have heard someone or something being described as “gender”. The term gender, in this context, means having gender expression worth of envy. If you see a person and you feel like emulating their gender expression, then you'll call that person “gender”.

More often than not, 'gender' is reserved for androgyny and perceived gender nonconformity. People of all genders are capable of being 'gender', but gender conforming folks are often reserved to be 'transition goals' for binary trans people. 'Transition goals' imply that the person expressing that feeling is willing to achieve their aesthetic targets with both long-term transitional healthcare (HRT, surgeries, exercise) and short-term gender affirming care (makeup, hair styling, clothing) while gender is reserved for the later goal. Again, with vague, still-developing queer vernacular; both of these terms have an overlap in use and target.

'Gender' ascribes an ideal in queer thought, no matter how subjective. So, I asked my friends who they thought of as 'gender'. Before I continue, I should mention that my data is anecdotal in nature, but it is still able to provide necessary insight into our biases, and the inferences are noteworthy. All of the people who answered are active internet users and part of different online queer spaces, and are within the ages 18-30.

Across the board, the answers featured men and masculine presenting people. They also happened to be white or had light skin, and can be described as thin. Even when people mentioned women or non-men as their examples of “gender”, they had lighter skin and were not fat. In the scope of my query, I struggled to find anyone who did not fit conventional beauty standards who were defined as “gender”.

As trans and queer individuals we mostly exist outside societal norms of gender, sexuality, and love. But that doesn't imply that people in the community won't inherit other forms of bigotry, let alone queerphobia and transphobia. By viewing people who present in a masculine way as “gender” more frequently, we inadvertently extend patriarchal views; where being a man is seen as a neutral being but being a woman or a nonbinary individual is seen as inherently gendered and othered. The oppressive systems at play view a thin, white, able-bodied cis man as the neutral, natural being; and anyone else as a deviation, an anomaly, something to be marked as different. And it sucks that even 'radical' queer activists subconsciously buy into these systems.

This inherent bias is seen when you ask someone to give you a piece of clothing that is not gendered. They are more likely to hand you a suit than a sari, even though they claim to believe that clothes have no inherent gender. Similarly, a shirt is a neutral piece of clothing, but a thobe, a yukata, or a kurta are “cultural” clothes; despite all being clothes are commonly worn by various groups of people.

Complex questions that inquire about societal and cultural norms, and questions the veracity of different biases that exist within us seldom come with simple answers. But that doesn't mean all efforts will be futile. We can start by questioning why we think of a certain gender as the natural being and others as a marked deviation, not “normal”. The steps after this questioning are even more complex, involving attempting to deconstruct the way gender is viewed in society. There is one step that is simple, and that is ensuring transphobic cis queers never get a platform.

When my poetry stagnates, I know the world is on fire. I know the world is on fire, for my poetry does not sing. It is not born out of misery, my words, But squeezed instead out of the last remaining willfull happiness I have left within me. This happiness that writhes in pain, Asking to be let free. In my misery I drink of the world. I embody the cowardice my forefathers taught me to seek. I am flesh and I am bone and the misery of this earth Does not entail me. And neither does my poetry. Dried up sands within fall like an inch of time pasing by from a higher cliff And atop it I sit, wondering When shall the end be near me.

Wired brain – it's mine!

My brain is wired. There are a couple diagnoses and I don't want more. Ultimately, the wires in my brain are entangled, keep switching, some are different colors and some are invisible. I don't want to delve into the challenges I face to exist in a pretentious non wired world but the struggles of claiming my wired-ness.

I am not really sure what is more difficult. I get annoyed when I see other people keeping their response to themselves. Although, when I go back to my visual self, I see the fear and shame evidently from my childhood and five years of law school. I had a mask on to not be myself; the fact is I never knew who I am. It made it easier to be whoever I wanted to be (common word for it is projecting). Those were equally sad days, but they were the days of unawareness from discouragement to get aware.

I would deflect from projecting once in a while or when I felt safe with my beloved friend from the time. She is the person who helped me start unveiling myself; to see that everything I think or speak is not silly. Then it was her, work colleagues and work that I was immensely faithful too. I loved what I was doing irrespective of the routine, I could truly see myself and my wired brain complementing and coexisting. Once my boss, while talking about a matter in Court the next day, was agitated and asked me if I am even understanding or just nodding. I think he knew how I used to feel about doing what we were doing but he expected me to express that feeling.

“I've just learnt to accept my feelings, how do i express them. Is it necessary? Is nodding not engaging or expressive.” It's only a few years (could be 2, 5, 10, 12 years) that I realised my way of perceiving the world is common; even its presence is very explicit but it's always unacknowledged!

I unapologetically address myself a late bloomer; the shade, light, water I received was unproportionate, there were storms and untimely rain but assessment is based on growth. The more I learnt how behind I am from the unwireds and after it stopped making any difference, I was still sad but it was tube lightening. I adore the person I am and this constant push to pretend upsets me and when it doesn’t affect others in similar situations, it upsets me even more.

Being wired has broken me, hence I can only be broken into more pieces instead of being fixed. I don’t see any point in being fixed or healed because it's not possible; but also because the process of healing will make me resilient and to pretend. I don’t want to put so much effort into molding myself when I can continue to be upset and still exist. It can't be just me who have been unknown to myself for so long that it's now ruthless but yet joyful to explore further.

Was this the expression my boss was expecting while he is amazing at pretending? Humans are complex and when it’s 'char log', it gets even more complicated.

Note: Maybe the writing style did not make sense. If you want to get sense out of something I said, reach out. If you disagree, please break my notions but if you’re offended; you're welcome.

I am drowning yet I wish I could drown further. I ask my friends what drowning feels like. They give me a sad laugh and walk past. Lately, I don't understand things around me. I was dying and someone who loved me said, “Live” and I became immortal. Maybe I loved them too. I don't remember their face. I do remember them leaving. They were stupid. They didn't realize how much relief there is in death until they left me in death. An end to the noise. An end to the corrosion. An end. An end. I hate so much about everything they stood for. I want to wear their bones as a crown. I have lived a thousand deaths. I last slept against some Banyan tree. It offered some faux camaraderie in its longevity. I bleed sometimes. It makes me cry. Fate plays this cruel game, masquerading my mortality. I hate you. You had no right to take what was mine. It was your greed. Your possessiveness that would not let me go. The worst part is, i only remember the worst of you. I can't remember the way you kissed me, I remember the way you kept me hostage. I can't remember how you held my waist and danced with me, I remember the vague memory of you leaving. I went to the sea after a long time. I thought of drowning. I couldn't breathe. It felt normal for a while. It made me close my eyes for a moment as my lungs filled with the saline. A thousand blades haven't made me feel this good. I knew what was coming when your curse pulled me to the surface, the waves hitting me, each like a slap to the face. Was this love? Some days I think you never loved me, maybe I was an object to you. Yours to possess as long as you lived, a prized possession. A possession but nothing more. Like an invader entering promised land, you took everything. It was in your divinity to take everything. You put me on fire, and left me to burn for eternity. I don't even have the energy to curse you anymore. Maybe I did love you.

A month back while traveling back from Noida to Delhi, as always I passed Shaheen Bagh where peaceful protest was held in 2019-2020 against CAA and NRC. If you never passed that road during the protest days, you won't know what it was like to be there. Thousands of people standing tall to fight for their rights, to not be questioned for being in their own country and some in solidarity. After the protest was forcibly stopped, everything in that part of the road was painted over and removed. It was meant to remove all marks of resistance. One part that continued to give hope and joy that they left one mark where Faridabad was painted Zindabad. It was a pleasure to the eyes and ofcourse I thought nobody noticed it but me. I saw that more than couple time and the smile I held in solidarity. While passing through that road recently, Zindabad was removed too but I am not sure if I was still hurt. People who held that protest continue to be the citizens they are, Shaheen Bagh continues to hold the legacy of resistance that was acknowledged by the world. I would laugh to myself thinking that they really believe by revamping the area, they can get away with it. Now after four years, I don't feel the same, they are getting away with it easily. The world is on fire and international bodies fail to change anything in Gaza to stop the genocide; India is nowhere, forget about what is happening in parts of the country where the resistance for autonomy continues for years. I know as a savarna hindu – my citizenship would not be questioned and now being in a city where displaced refugees live including hindus and muslims; I am learning more. Also just saying out loud, north indian point of view is loud but it is narrow and I see it more and more with small interactions I get to be part of. This was just my experience and understanding till now and I know my values are shifting because of the public system becoming incapable of protecting the basic rights. What can I do about it? I don't know but I don't want to be hopeless.

In the love of the world I thought, was a beautiful place. I want to surprise myself, and know what I am capable of. I don’t want to give up, not right now!

With hope in despair.