The stories of a Crazy girl!

Growing up, girls are told there are only two kinds of girls, either a "typical girl" or "not like other girls". That being "like other girls" is bad. And before you even get to know any girl when they grow an actual personality, you start staying away from them because you want to grow your own personality. Because you are told girls don't have personalities, and you want to be different. You want to look cool, you want to fit in, you want to be accepted, you want to stand out, you want the guys to like you, and for that, from all around you, you have to be different than other girls. I know because I used to believe that. Grew up a few interests I told girls can't have so I thought every day, I had to try and be more and more different from them. That there was nothing I could possibly talk to a girl about because hey, "All girls talk about is makeup! Makeup BAD! Girls BAD!" The more I believed I could not talk to girls, girls wouldn

 I know you don't remember the day you touched my scars. You looked at them in pity and distaste but not in disgust. You gave a nod that said "you are a fool" but not unlovable. I was afraid your reaction might add more pain to them but you touched it in a way they wanted to heal. I was afraid they were going to push you away but then you pulled me close. You held me to your chest. "Was it necessary?" you asked. But your eyes knew better. The way they looked at me, they did not need an answer. We gave eachother our silence. Our embrace. And the cuts didn't matter anymore. I know you don't remember the day you touched my scars, but I play it in my mind everytime its your turn to be the fool. I take my turn to do what you did that day. Love, anyway.

Another set of eyes stop to stare at me. Maybe I am dressed wrong? I try to adjust the shawl and my own thoughts seem stupid to me. If this is dressing wrong, then I don't know what one would call dressing right. An hour back, standing before the mirror, my mind was flooding with confusions of what to wear. If it were back in my home in Nepal, nothing could have made me think so much about dressing up. I would have picked my usual set of shirt and jeans, grabbed my earphones, and would have hopped off to somewhere feeling comfortable. But here I was in my hostel in Bangladesh. Going out alone in jeans would have been stupidity. I definitely didn't have the guts to have a 20 minutes long rickshaw ride with people staring at me. So kurtha and salwar it was. Then the usual questions like which one, which colour, with what pair of trousers and with which shawl, bombarded me. The others were easy to answer, but the one I was stuck at was the shawl. I could not find my fav

There was a time when I had these huge dreams. I wanted to accomplish everything at an young age, I was scared if my dreams would die like that of my parents. I would even think of never getting married because the way I saw, it trapped you. I would write songs and think of having them recorded and even plan a whole music video, imagine it playing on the radios. However I didn't have that kind of money. I wrote novels and imagined getting them published and sold, getting prizes for those. I laugh when I remember I actually even met a lot of publishers by searching the addresses and going there alone, when I was just 18 or less. The thing was, I was so stupidly determined I would do something big, become someone famous at an early age. We've all read biographies where people started at an young age, nobody believed them and they ended up big right? I was determined, that it was my fate to become a famous person like that. But more than that, I was scared, what if I die without

 ( Was filled with the urge of writing this after seeing posts about Swosthani on social medias ) Yes we don't read Swosthani in our house every year. No I'm not an Atheist. I don't know if I qualify as a religious person. I celebrate every festival. I bow down at every temple I see. I pray to God and put tika before exam and flights. But we have never read Swosthani in our home, as far as I remember. I once remember reading Swosthani when I was younger, not aloud though. I didn't worship the cover before reading it, I just put it on my lap and read it. To me, I was just reading another book. I remember there was this Goma of 7 or 17 years who married a 70 years old man. ( I haven't read it ever after that day so I'm not really sure about the facts. ) That part seemed absurd to me, even as a schoolgirl. I imagined myself, around the same age, marrying such an old man; and it scared me! I just put the book aside and never completed it. There are things like

"Will you be fine now? Do you want me to stay?" She slowly unwrapped her arms from around her little brother as he gave her a nod as an answer. "But this hurts, I just realised." He said, with a short shy and guilty glance at his hand. "Of course it does. I will go get some ointment, you stay here." With that, she left the room, taking just one more glance at his arm. Some old and some new, there was hardly any part of the skin on his left forearm and palm not carrying the burden of any scars or cuts. Scars, she had known them too well for too long. She could tell by looking at a scar how much a person had suffered. She could tell which scars were from self-harm and which from suicidal attempts. The numerous, shallow, scary to look at, those ones were from "self-harm". Usually done when a person loathed himself so much that he would want to cause pain, see himself suffering, and fill himself up with physical pain enough to overwrite the actu