Sharon Eappen

The book of Esther is the story of a Jewish girl, who gets to be Queen by hiding her identity as a Jew and almost risks her marriage to save her own people from genocide. While that takes up most of the story line there is a build up in the book which leads to Esther’s marriage that is usually not noticed or is rush read or rush explained (if you’ve been to Sunday School and/or Christian camps, that is). So in the drama of the man who built his own gallows, what exactly did we miss? Queen Vashti. Queen Vashti, the former wife of King Xerxes, is mentioned briefly in the first two chapters of the book. While throwing a banquet for his nobles and officials, the King commanded the eunuchs who served him to bring before him his Queen because she was lovely to look at. What did she do instead? She refused to come out and, it says, that burned the King with anger. Queen Vashti refusing to come out when the attendants approached her While that seems casually mentioned, it see...

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...

Note to the Reader: I wasn't depressed while writing this. Thanks. 30.01.2019

Are you a writer? Are you not? Are you someone who writes occasionally, or do you not write at all? Whatever it is, you have certainly come across the term 'Writer's Block'.  A creativity block, in general, is the inability of a person to think, process and perform normally in one's field of art. As vicious as it sounds it is all the more striking to realise there has been a specific creativity block that is strongly associated with writers and that is, you know it, the writer's block. From getting into writing just as a hobby, to setting up a blog website, to ensuring I keep up with my consistency and failing quite a few times, I've come to realise that writer's blocks can actually be very varied even when all these added flavours can stick to the precise definition of what a writer's block is (which, by the way, actually has no precise definition, like most personal encounters and experiences). So here it is on what I th...

I remember lying awake on That bed, my mom beside me. Listening to that morning drizzle, My mom peacefully lying beside me. I remember my sister pulling me To sleep beside her for a little longer. Her lazy Saturday mornings blissfully turned Into my nostalgic memories. I remember mamma gently cupping my Arm, as she slept beside me telling Me how she missed me all along as I Notice the ceiling miss my blank stares. I remember my sister calling me the Name she lovingly calls me and wrapping me In her warm hugs, cuddling with me just As how she would on any other normal day. Two weeks before, in another place I Remember my dad playing and cuddling With me as we prepare to fall asleep. I remember how everything around him Faded, When his little girl was in his arms. Kohima War Cemetery, 23.06.18 I remember the love and cuddles As I sleep on a poorly stuffed Mattress. I remember the back massages on That very bed. Never a back Massage...

        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...