Saadiya, the kind with long skinny legs and a face that didn't quite make it to pretty.
Saadiya with her brow raised furiously drawing the beauty out of her, filling it in the pit of her stomach in a tight knot. Yellow sunshine spaghetti, short denim shorts.
Today the din around her seems to submerge the screams inside. Its the madness of being at Juhu beach in the multitude of holidayers. The whole mass swells as one single body. In Sweat. In dreams. In missing pieces.
She might've been called nice if she wasn't so unfulfilled. She couldn't complain of lack of attention from men. In times when other girls were taught to be modest, she was a rebel. She had done it all, all that she knew there was not to do. She flaunted her shame. There were definitely two of her inside. And in those nasty fights and fits, I always thought there was something sacred. Something timid, screaming to be held.
Saadiya moved effortlessly from man to man to man.Yet, wanting a man she could not get. She had searching eyes. A bit of an outcast in the midst of her core group of friends. A curiosity-in-psychology-raiser she angled on, dangerously.
Until, little Saadiya (called Seya) bumbled about wearing a yellow spaghetti and short denim shorts.
Raised out of her reverie, Saadiya. Who took to the skies, made her friends proud. Saadiya, who sobered up, took to her home. Saadiya a doting mother, a fulfilled wife, a dutiful daughter.
So much you can't tell about where we've been by looking at where we are.
Seya doesn't see an angry, nervous person with a raised brow. She sees a jet fighting ass kicking maverick and a saree clad obsessive mother. A hug, an embrace and Saadiya fights back tears. She is home.
Saadiya with her brow raised furiously drawing the beauty out of her, filling it in the pit of her stomach in a tight knot. Yellow sunshine spaghetti, short denim shorts.
Today the din around her seems to submerge the screams inside. Its the madness of being at Juhu beach in the multitude of holidayers. The whole mass swells as one single body. In Sweat. In dreams. In missing pieces.
She might've been called nice if she wasn't so unfulfilled. She couldn't complain of lack of attention from men. In times when other girls were taught to be modest, she was a rebel. She had done it all, all that she knew there was not to do. She flaunted her shame. There were definitely two of her inside. And in those nasty fights and fits, I always thought there was something sacred. Something timid, screaming to be held.
Saadiya moved effortlessly from man to man to man.Yet, wanting a man she could not get. She had searching eyes. A bit of an outcast in the midst of her core group of friends. A curiosity-in-psychology-raiser she angled on, dangerously.
Until, little Saadiya (called Seya) bumbled about wearing a yellow spaghetti and short denim shorts.
Raised out of her reverie, Saadiya. Who took to the skies, made her friends proud. Saadiya, who sobered up, took to her home. Saadiya a doting mother, a fulfilled wife, a dutiful daughter.
So much you can't tell about where we've been by looking at where we are.
Seya doesn't see an angry, nervous person with a raised brow. She sees a jet fighting ass kicking maverick and a saree clad obsessive mother. A hug, an embrace and Saadiya fights back tears. She is home.
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