Skip to main content

Name the Pain

 




They came with laughter in their hands,

With hearts like lanterns, glowing bright,

To carve a moment out of time,

Beneath the stars, beneath the light.

 

A mother’s prayer, a lover’s gaze,

A child’s delight in winding roads,

A dreamer’s pause where silence sang—

All scattered now like fallen oaths.

 

A ring still warm upon a hand,

A father’s hand, now cold, let go—

Life torn away, so sudden, stark,

Mid-laughter’s rise, mid-lover’s kiss.

 

What law of man, what claim to cause,

Can stand where joy was laid so bare? 

What twisted creed could sanctify

The breaking of a breath so fair?

 

No faith commands this kind of fire,

No flag flies high on bloodied peace

This isn't faith, this isn’t right—

No God would bless this kind of fight.


So mourn we must, for lives now gone,

But vow we shall, with burning cry:

That never shall such horror reign,

These tears will cost you far.

 

This terror has a name, a creed—

Rooted in belief that feeds on fear,

A warped devotion, insecure,

That sees all difference as a war.


This isn't about hatred.

This is about truth.


This was no mere incident—

it was a sermon of supremacy,

a prayer that preached blood,

and we must answer it

not with blindness,

but with bold sight.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Woman Without D

The sun rays fought their way through the gap in the curtains, slicing across my eyes like a physical blow. My alarm screamed—a digital screech that seemed to vibrate inside my teeth. I swiped it off, the silence rushing back in, but the relief didn't follow. I lay there, staring at the ceiling fan cutting through the stagnant air. Which day is this? I wondered. It felt like the same day I had lived for the past six months. A gray, heavy loop. "Get up, Sruthi," I whispered to the empty room. "Just get up." I am Sruthi. On paper, I am a twenty-eight-year-old Senior Analyst at a top-tier firm. I am supposed to be in the prime of my life—ambitious, vibrant, climbing the ladder. But as I peeled the duvet off my body, I didn't feel twenty-eight. I felt ancient. I had slept eight hours. I had gone to bed at 10:00 PM like a disciplined child. Yet, as I swung my legs over the side of the bed, gravity felt twice as strong as it should be. There was no "ready to ...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Brilliant Criminal We Chose Not to See

I came across a line recently — just a casual post online — and I haven't been able to shake it since. It said: "Georgekutty has become an underrated character just because he is played by Sri Mohanlal." I read it. Scrolled past. Came back. Read it again. And then I sat with it for a long time, because I think it is one of the great observations anyone has made about the Drishyam franchise. Here I am, still thinking about it. We have spent over a decade watching this man — this cable TV operator from a small village, fourth-grade dropout, devoted husband, fiercely loving father — and we have cheered for him. Every. Single. Time. We rooted for him in 2013. We stood up for him in 2021. And now, in 2026, with Drishyam 3 fresh in our hearts, we are doing it all over again. But here is the question I want to sit with today: Who exactly are we cheering for? Let me describe Georgekutty to you — not as the hero the story frames him as, but as who he actually is. He is a man with...
Post a Comment
Read more

To the One Who Taught Me to Unlearn

I come from a middle-class family in Kerala. My skin is brown — brown enough to not fit the beauty standards this society has so rigidly defined. As I stand in front of the mirror, I see curves that are "too much," hair that is "too frizzy," skin that is "too dark." I have been conditioned to believe that this body — my body — is not enough. The voices around me were never kind. Relatives, neighbors, even parents, in their ignorance, made remarks that stuck to my skin like scars. “You’re too dark,” they would say. “You’re fat, your back isn’t straight, your body isn’t right.” They’d tell me not to wear white — it doesn’t “suit” me. They’d mock me for applying kajal, saying it blends into my skin tone. Red lipstick? Unthinkable. All too bold for a girl with this skin. Strangers stared. The media reinforced it. And slowly, I thought it was normal — all of it. Somehow, I grew immune to these comments. Maybe I’d just heard them so often that my ears stop...
Post a Comment
Read more