If I had been a loved person I would not have become a writer. I would have been a happy human being. I would write about the calm. I would write about happiness, and a lovely love life and to want to live so that it would be an incentive for life.

- Kamala Das

I am confused. What should I write? Should I write about that war which is creating havoc in that country where I have never been but every time I am reading about it something is chipping inside me. Should I write about those women who carry invisible cracks in their heart. In a way both are the same. While war breaks the earth, when a woman breaks she accumulates the pain, she carries it like that lump which she can’t swallow or vomit. She becomes that heaviness — that unwritten poem which she can’t rhyme.

I want to walk away from these not so quiet words but all I can see is dark clouds in the sky and the smoky eyes. I can see that dread which they have been carrying since years. I have seen those cities which emerged after being burnt but a woman how does she emerge when she has embraced the pain in a quiet way. I have read many poems about women and I have written a lot about women but isn’t it’s a waste to write the same thing when I know it’s a war to be a woman.

But the page has to heal, the emptiness has to speak. The invisible colours hidden beneath layers of paints. The many lies in the eyes. The stories I lived. The stories I buried. Somehow they find a way to seep. I can see those woman who are continuously at war with life. I can see them celebrating their not so quiet life.