Pending Storms

It is unusually still today. And horribly hot. Not a single leaf moves, not a single blade of grass sways. The birds have all fallen silent. There is a waiting, a hushed hold your breath sort of waiting. Waiting for the storm to break, yet not knowing if it will or when it will. In that waiting is a whisper of hope. A hope of a respite from this suffocating stillness. A respite from this not knowing. A respite from the fear of what might be. This calm before the storm. Sometimes more terrifying than the storm itself.

Another day, another lifetime. Standing at the window, feeling the oppressive stillness. It has been calm for too long now. I have been safe for almost three months. And in this silence is the warning. Any day now I expect the storm to break. I unconsciously brace myself for the blows, the lashings, yet I know it can be days or weeks before anything happens. It is the knowing that it will happen, yet not knowing when, not knowing what will trigger it, that suffocates, that has me holding my breath just like the leaves outside.

The thunder suddenly crashes loud outside the window, the wind rushes around like a mad man, the rain pelts down, relentless, battering everything with all its might. But once spent, it disappears, leaving behind a magical world, full of sparkling drops on leaves and grass, containing a million rainbows. Illusions that disappear once they dry up. The breeze too tired of having held its breath for so long, blows gently. The world suddenly seems so beautiful.

At home too, the storm arrives, vicious and cruel. But having spent itself, it changes . It is as if all the tension of the previous days has just disappeared. As if it never happened. The gentleness and love is poignant with regret and though I know it is just as much an illusion as the rainbows outside, I hold these moments close, knowing that I have a respite for some time at least and I can breathe once more albeit for a little while, till I start dreading the build up of another storm. 


One by one, they crumble
The relationships built over years.
You thought that each brick was cemented with love and trust
And suddenly
As if there has been a terrible earthquake
It all comes tumbling down
With bricks of memories scattered around
Waiting for your heart to stumble over and start bleeding all over again.
And you realise they don’t make band-aids for bruised hearts
You desperately try gathering the bricks
To build again what was lost
But what emerges is an edifice with holes in the walls
Where the bricks don’t fit.
An unstable monument to the past
Which you pretend is perfect
And you know you dare not look too close
It is so much easier to paint over the cracks with a glossy sheen of what ever shade you like
But somewhere at the edge of consciousness you know
And without realising it you wait for it to fall down again.
Knowing that when it does
your heart will be too tattered to hold anything together again.

Being A Woman

Women’s Day! And as I listen to so many of my friends grumbling about being a woman, I realise that I love being a woman. I really, really love being a woman. And I love a man who is a man. Maybe I sound a bit old-fashioned and out of sync with today’s world, but I am old enough to stop being a hypocrite and get away with the truth.

I love having a myriad of moods that define me. I love being happy and giggly and sentimental and crazy. I love being sad and cranky and melancholy. I love being dark and mysterious and sensuous and seductive. I love being warm and loving and caring. I love all of it.

I love the fact that I can love with my whole heart and soul and no one can ever guess it. I love being absolute sugar sweet to people I hate and watch them squirm to give me a fitting reply. I love the fact that I can cry through a whole box of tissues while watching a movie or reading a book.

I love having girlfriends with whom I can share so much. To them I can cry about my crush who doesn’t even notice me. With them I can celebrate all the small things that make life so beautiful. I love letting my hair down and being just me.

I love dressing up and going to the parlour. I love being beautiful and being told that I am. I love the fact that I am a drama queen and can turn from angelic innocence to a wailing banshee in a matter of seconds.

I love the fact that I am so passionate about things and people. I could kill for my kids and those I hold dear. It feels good to rip into people sometimes when jealously strikes. Bitching session are another favourite.

I love fact that I am a mother. I thrill to the memory of holding my daughters in my womb, feeling the movement of their limbs within me. There is nothing so awesome as a baby nursing at your breast, looking up to you with absolute adoration as you talk to her softly. I loved hugging and holding my kids through nightmares and heartaches, coz of course mummy knows best.

I love the fact that I am strong enough to walk alone, to do everything I need to do, to take responsibility for my own life and feelings.  But I also love the fact that I have people who would jump in to help at a moment’s notice.

I love the fact that I can get most males to do things for me by just dazzling them with my smile or fluttering my eyelashes at them. I love the way they preen when I give them my “You’re my hero smile”.  I love the fact that I could get my husband to want to leave the party early and rush home with just a glance across the room.

I love it when my man protects and defends me. I love it when he cares for and pampers me. I love the fact that I can bring playfulness into our relationship. I love the fact that he never knows what I am going to be up to next. I love being unpredictable.

I love being woman!