Words

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#NotAPhoenix

By Saru Singhal - October 27, 2015

For more hashtag stories, stalk me on - Facebook, Twitter and Instagram

TheHashtagStory

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Kishor KumarFebruary 4, 2016 at 11:10 PM
Sometimes some relations can never be mended and better left alone. Nice touchy lines.
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Alka GurhaFebruary 5, 2016 at 12:11 AM
But she was searching, hoping....
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Maitreni MishraFebruary 5, 2016 at 10:08 AM
Much realistic and heartwarming... but hope never ends! Wish she could get a little piece of coal amidst those ashes.
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purba chakrabortyFebruary 5, 2016 at 3:42 PM
Amazing! Beautifully weaved, Saru :)
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RachnaFebruary 5, 2016 at 8:53 PM
Lovely! You excel at this format, Saru.
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Abhijit RayFebruary 6, 2016 at 2:52 AM
Life thrives on hope not hopelessness.
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sunaina sharmaFebruary 6, 2016 at 7:10 AM
Sad...
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Somali K ChakrabartiFebruary 6, 2016 at 9:41 AM
Sad but better to end a relationship when there is no hope left in it.
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To the woman who sleeps with someone else's husband

By Saru Singhal - September 29, 2019

Let me begin by saying - I understand human relationships are complex. I also understand one-night stands, flings, excitement those flings bring, sexual desires, desire to be wanted by men other than your own husband. What I don't understand - why you had no respect for me? Why you demeaned me, mocked my looks, made remarks about my intelligence? And why you chose to do all that for not one day but for years? Even when I was going through one miscarriage after another.

Now let me tell you how your actions ruined one woman's life beyond repair.

When you did all that my husband came home and repeated the same words and actions to deal with his own guilt. He objectified me - he inserted in me when you were not available. He mocked my looks - his exact words - I look like a chimpanzee when I wear a bright-coloured lipstick. You know, I can't look at any man now. He insulted my intelligence. He said I was good enough only to bag groceries at a supermarket. The list of insults is …

My poetry is not for foreplay. It's for after sex.

By Saru Singhal - July 28, 2019

My poetry is not for foreplay. It's for after sex. When you'll light the Marlboro and move to your side of the bed, my poems will be the breath of fresh air in a room filled with smoke. But do not underestimate me. My poems won't be sweet, gentle or mellow. They will be brazen, brutal and bold. I will present them on a sharply-edged knife. The blood on the knife will be hot. Fresh from the wounds I don't allow to heal. You will take a drag from Marlboro - but served with my sinful words - you will feel as if you've snorted cocaine.
You will not get high, though. You will see the world in a different light. Murky lanes leading to posh hotels, board rooms and high-rise apartment buildings. In one of those aesthetically decorated rooms, you will see a man f*****g someone's life just for a little pleasure. You will see him getting hard on someone's misery. A woman pleasuring herself while watching a wrecked home that she takes all credit for. To watch someone se…

To the guy who gave me my first kiss and the real taste in music

By Saru Singhal - September 07, 2019

One morning my 21-year-old boyfriend asked me to bunk college. He was too sad after listening to a ghazal. 'Bunk!' I thought. I would elope with a guy who loves music like this. I even proposed how our life would be - we would pack our clothes in 2 suitcases, he would take his dad's Maruti 800, we would take tuitions to earn money, live in a small one-room-first-floor house somewhere in Himachal on rent, and listen to music till 4 am. 'You idiot, my dad wouldn't care if I am lost, but his car. Let's not take the car,' he said with a straight face. It was decided then and there, we would elope and not take his dad's car in which he lost his virginity.
I met him at our favourite spot in Sector 36, Chandigarh. 'Where to?' he asked. 'Anywhere. Just drive,' I said. He turned on the music and drove. The roads were empty. We passed Manimajra. We didn't talk. We listened to the music. That was our bond. We loved the same songs, in the same fa…

When he left me and my love affair with chai ended

By Saru Singhal - July 10, 2019

His 1000-watt smile under the dim light of the car made him sexier than he actually was. His 5 feet 11-inch lethal body, almond-shaped eyes and perfect manners made a posh exterior every girl fell for. But I fell for the animal he was. He was honest with me. And I was real with him.

'I missed you,' he said. 'Did you miss me?' he glanced at me while racing the car on Ambala-Chandigarh highway. 'No. I didn't.' I lied. He pressed the accelerator harder only to stop on a secluded road. It was dark already, but his intentions were darker. 'So,' he said while leaping onto my side. 'You didn't miss me.' I looked straight into his eyes but before any word could come out of my mouth, he was inside it. Then he came on top of me. He kissed my neck and inhaled on it.

'You wear the best of perfumes. You know when I led my troop to that village last week, I was buttoning up my shirt and thought of how you smell. Oh, you make me so hard!' He went…

You are my Desi Tharra

By Saru Singhal - December 24, 2018

My Blue Label drinking friends would say I've sold my soul to Desi Tharra. I have. I admit I've gone rustic. I want to taste that cheap alcohol. That 70-rupee bottle. I want it to hit me instantly. I don't want a tipsy evening. I want a drunk evening. High on cheap liquor and you.

Then let's get cozy. I'll read you a chapter from my unfinished book under my favorite flannel blanket. Hug me from my waist. Smell the patchouli on my neck. Lend me your ear. I promise I'll bare my soul. Listen, as no man has ever listened to me. Because every word I write has meaning. Breathe softly into my ears as I open myself to you.

Note where my words are harsh - someone must have stabbed me there - know my words are bleeding in response. Pay attention to the soft words - someone must have stirred my soul - know my words are humming a Coke Studio Pakistan song there. In case you feel my words are too intense at some point. Don't ask. Know it's you. You must have said s…

Here's what I learned in 7 years of blogging

By Saru Singhal - June 18, 2018

7 years ago I started my blog. And I entered the magical world of writing. I was living in the Boston suburbs. After finishing my work and household chores, I still had some spare time. I remember the exact moment I clicked the 'B' icon on Google and I created a Blogger account. I knew only two Bloggers that time - Amitabh Bachchan and Lisa Ray. I had no idea what it takes to be an accomplished blogger, but I was excited to be a part of a community which is independent and expresses its views without any inhibition. I must say, it has been an amazing journey only because I have learned so much.

I started by writing poetry, then I started writing articles and now I can write anything. Professionally, I am a content writer for a couple of websites. I ghostwrite for two more agencies based out of North America. I write sponsored articles on my blog. I tweet, post Facebook statutes, answer Quora questions, and mention brands on Instagram for money. Brands even consult me for social…

Soundarya Sabun Nirma

By Saru Singhal - January 11, 2016

It was a ruthless day when I discovered my real identity. As a teenager, I struggled through hot girls, rich girls, and famous-for-nothing girls. I often felt like a lost puppy in the crowd of bitches. Amidst the ting-tong of Doordarshan commercial, finally, one day I found answers to all my questions. My ray of enlightenment was none other than - Nirma Soap Ad.

This karmic journey started the day my cousin infused the thought that a soap defines you. He bathed with Dettol as he was a cleanliness freak. And I should choose a soap that fits my character. When I gleefully jumped at being Liril Girl, he looked with disdain. With one hand he pointed at Preity Zinta’s poster and with other towards the mirror. I nodded. I had no dimples or shorts to be that cool. Even the bottom of my skirt was triple folded to adjust my growing height and our middle-class income. On that day of summer vacation, my arduous journey began. If there is a soap that my fits my short-rounded-desperate frame, I sho…

Of Wild Sex, Poetry, And Man I Call My Ocean

By Saru Singhal - January 14, 2019

Those half-stoned eyes, Rough hands feeling up my breast. Your breath stinking of cheap liquor, I should have left.
Man, why did I stay? There must be some spell on me. I was a ruin myself, Searching for love in debris.
That cheap motel was not comforting either, Nor was the sheet smooth. I even felt bumps on the mattress, When our bodies rhythmically moved.
You rested your head on my stomach later, Asked me to read a poem for you. You are a man with 20 dollar jeans, Who calls quickie a rendezvous.
I don't know who should I blame? But it is more than lust. You listen to my worthless poetry, And I'm the only woman you trust.
Don't read too much between lines, you say, Don't call us broken. I'm the river which flows into you, And you are my ocean.
Man, why shouldn't I stay? You fill up the emptiness in me. With you, I'm a scintillating mess, With you, I'm free.
*Poetic expression after watching Elle. French movies can do this to you.

#NotAPhoenix

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