Sharon Eappen

Off late, with the mass bombings and genocide happening in Gaza and knowing how Israel has provided licenses to fuel companies (one of them being British petroleum) to profit out of Gaza's gas I realized that the conflict (well, it's not a conflict anymore, it's pure apartheid) was also being viewed from a capitalistic point of view. Further, getting to know that Rishi Sunak, the prime minister of the UK, is most likely profiting from the genocide since Infosys signed a billion-dollar deal with British Petroleum led me to a dilemma of how unknowingly complicated and frustrating ethics can be. I am not talking about the politicians, the leaders, and world peace-makers. I am referring to common people. People who live on the other side of the world and only get to see this in the comfort of their homes. People who have been mostly unaffected by this war. People who have been going ahead with the rest of the day as if nothing happened. People like you and me.     Imagine an ...

The picture is for reference only.   The case of a student nun murder in 1992, Kottayam, Kerala, had resurfaced recently when a verdict was passed after 28 years. Amidst the entire ruckus of being charged with murder, destruction of evidence and the church misusing its power and wealth to manipulate statements there is another problem I see which for some reason is not being addressed to the general public.   I’m just going to stop beating around the bush and say this:   two individuals going to great lengths to murder an innocent person is not normal but the fruit of the issue. The root is the institutionalization of religion imposed by the Church which all 3 were victims of. As long as the root is there, how much ever you cut the fruits off, they are bound to grow back. That is, overlooking how harmful forceful celibacy has proven to be is only going to make such incidences happen again.   The truth, how much ever church likes to deny it, is that every...

--There are some things that are really hard to say but have to be said one way or the other -- The other day, when I attended a Holy Communion service which supposedly followed the CSI order of worship (not really, but bits and pieces), I started to feel an unsual sense of discomfort within me. Now that discomfort did not emerge from the worship being in Malayalam (which I had gotten accustomed to, even though my first language is English). It did not come from the fact that I had to cover my head, because although I did not personally believe in forcing women to cover their heads, I was used to doing so since I knew that the Sunday service was not a time for arguments like these. It was also not because of the liturgical style of worship even though my family and I occasionally go to Free Worship churches back at home (and I would attend the college’s worship during my first year) because I do enjoy the depth of liturgy and the affirmations it hold. That discomfort came fr...

We are all but entities Of our own selves Whole yet empty, Passionate yet plodding. All of me is just an embodiment, Of the different monsters that Come to live in me. All of me is like a canvas A canvas that is played upon. Not like the canvas of the night sky That is beautiful to look at; This canvas is almost grey. It's colours are paler than pale And duller than dull. It looks Like the colours were spilled untidily, By children who were only playing. But the canvas, oh the canvas It can feel the pain Of being twisted and turned And stretched and pulled. This body can feel the pain This entity isn't dull. It feels every emotion walk in; It feels every emotion pierce out. This entity is breathing and feeling Even if it has to come face to face With its own monsters- the old ones That like to pay kind visits. This entity feels every emotion An outburst of cry Or a rage of anger It is tired of building facades. And so it ...

As I take a walk in the moonlight on a breezy evening, an evening where the many trees refuse to talk to me, I remember you, Muskaan, as much as I push it away. As much as I remind myself of how the paths of my evening walk are filled with girls my age I still have a sharp memory of us, you and I, going around ice cream vendors and sitting on the park bench in my colony. I remember describing the night skies to you, like you couldn't see it yourself and you wondering why I had such an obsession for the night sky. I remember sitting beside you after calling you to come out even when it was late just to tell you how stressed I've been. Do you remember how I'd hold your hand in fright every time we crossed the road? Or how you'd patiently wait for that one truck or motorcycle to pass by because I told so? Do you remember how we'd search around for the big dustbin in my colony (that would magically teleport itself every few days) because we refused to throw ice c...

        I find myself constantly trapped within veils during worship - like a persistent reminder of where my position stands in the church, like a bodily adornment. I like the way I am told of how women were never called to be leaders or teachers of the law, or worse, pastors.  It took me many years though, to realise that while there was only one to cover my head, only one you could see, there were several veils wrapped around my throat, mouth and mind to the point where I would choke and rebuke the denomination I grew up in simply because of the many different veils that covered me.       I have veils in my thinking, words and behaviour, almost like chains.  Now, every time I see the curtain that separates the altar and the congregation being drawn, symbolising the Incarnation and Crucifixion, indicating to how the veil between God and man tore, I wish that each one of these veils that bind us to things unnecessary are also tor...

(Written again on one of those hours I was supposed to be studying. Some things are just hobbies you can't give up and sometimes, just sometimes, they can be therapy.)       I think of you on spring nights, the warm and the cold, the eerily silent. I think of you as the bird flaps its wings trying to make its first flight like the ones in my balcony just did. I think of you when I think of all the Harry Potter books I've read and all the morals and values they taught me, of friendship and bravery but also of depth of each character - a certain amount of light in every "bad" character, a certain amount of darkness in every "good" character.       I think of you as the night unfolds into its peak hour, enveloping us all into its thick black blanket. I think of you in those dreams I get, of two men walking into my room and telling me to deny Jesus, yelling into me and my shivering tongue, shivering I say, but it's almost p...

Note to the Reader: The 'you' here refers to no specific person. It's a mixture of too many people I've met and too many people I'm bidding farewell to. It also refers to the memories, the "first times" and the city I'm part of since I was a few days old. The 'you' is everything this city has given me and everything I'm taking along to another city. Lastly, the 'you' could also be you if we have had any memory/ a couple of memories/ a truckload of memories particularly pertaining to this city, to Hyderabad.

(This is a confessional piece. Please read at your own discretion)  My silence screams through the night But no one can hear it. It isn't your regular type of scream It's blends with the peaceful sound of crickets. My silence yells through my anxiety But no one hears it. It blends with everyone else Those with and without, alike. My silence yells through my depression It howls through my self harming thoughts; The ones that let the haemophobic me Think of blood trickling down my skin. My silence yells through my headaches The frustrated study hours that make Me want to bang my head against the ceiling. It makes them think I'm doing okay. My silence mocks my insufficiency It's laughs at my frustration Of not being intelligent enough; It sees my failures and highlights them. My silence isn't the silence you like. It wails through my triumph And rejoices in my failure. It isn't the silence I like either. My silence i...

(Things I wish someone told me. Things I wish someone told all of us. Things I wish all of us told someone.) If you saw things my way, would you let me in? I want to see the scars that shaped you, the stories that made you. Would you let me in if I begged you? Tell me what you fear even if it's something as silly as spiders. Tell me what keeps you awake when you try falling asleep. Tell me what music you like- the ones that you cry and the ones you dance to. I want to see your eyes sparkling with passion when you talk about your favourite things. I want you to show me an old art of yours that you no longer create. I want you to show me pieces of you that no longer exist - those dead passions that you couldn't feed. I want to know what races your mind or what was that one thing you knew was worth living for when you lost hope. I want to know if your interests are as bizarre as mine. Did you know that I talk to trees? Or that I cry, out of a mixture of happin...

Keeping Quiet  was the poem that was being taught when this happened. Pablo Neruda wanted his readers to spend some time in silence, meditating and introspecting and it was like Anjana Teacher fulfilled his wish like it was her duty as a Literature teacher. She told us to close our eyes and place our palms on our thighs. I did so, willingly, because I badly wanted to leave my confinement. "Feel yourself breathe" or something like that. I did. She asked us to feel our heartbeat in different parts of our body and I did. My mind was only beginning to grasp the power of this practice. Then she told something a little more vague. "Expand your consciousness" or something like that and I did and it felt like something within me started to inflate. Was I expanding? " Concentrate on the noises around you." I did. The wind was my favourite. I could even hear noises from the school's playground. Then I started to hear birds, just faintly. "By now yo...

I was born suicidal. Hang in there. Don't get me wrong. I'm not one of those people with cuts all over my body trying to earn sympathy for what I am. I'm just trying to write something about myself, something I've never dared to write down or talk about. So please bear with me if you can. I was born suicidal. Writing it down itself makes me form a lump in my throat - it isn't something I'd like to read or easily admit. It's usually something I like to stay away from pretending like it doesn't exist, locking it safe somewhere at the the back of the collection of my childhood memories where I wouldn't want to remember that I thought differently about death. As a kid, I thought everyone just wanted to die. No really, every single person just wanted to die. I still remember when I was probably 3 (may be 5) I was watching a cartoon where a character was trying to save his life and like the questioning child I always was I remember asking my dad rep...