1001 Ways to Embarrass Yourself While Avoiding Injuries

Standing in front of the flag, the national anthem playing somewhere, the flames burning, bodies charring against the backdrop of a blood-red sky , she is alone crying. The tragedy has not allowed her to realise until now, when the blood-streaked dust has settled on the lifeless bodies, when last screams have become last words muttered softly into the ground, she who has never known tragedy begins to understand it now. 'Who am I?' she thinks, salwar kameez drenched in blood- what godforsaken hell has she stepped in, why has she survived out of all the others, why do they hate her so much, why kill my mother father brother sisters? This has taken away something from her- a part of her will never ever be whole again- this ache in her that will pass on to her daughter and her daughter's daughter. "Remember me to them," her brother said, his turban gone, his hair all shorn cut off bald desecrated humiliated painful. Blood blood blood trickled down his face lea

Dear All, (referring to the possibly imaginary readers I have), This blog will currently henceforth reflect my desire to read PPE at university and my journey to getting there as well as describing my journey to the States through my US applications. I plan to read PPE in the UK and a possible double degree in the US- e.g. History/Economics/ppe at a liberal arts college/ public university. Wish me luck. I guess the end goal Goldman SACHS

With a whoosh, And then sploosh, the milk fell on the table leaving me quite , unable, to face my fears- without shedding tears. Clumsy child, they all whispered, Hedonistic romantic , said my sister- Why are you crying over spilt milk? You'd think we weren't of the same ilk! She exclaims, clutching a purse delicate hand flailing- she makes things so much the worse... I try to speak the words but sentences I cannot form, Instead I think of opportunity cost- choice foregone- A possibility of another me is undoubtedly irrevocably false. I loved pretending- but there was honestly just a very big part of me that could not help but be crying over milk, I couldn't explain sobs wracking my frame why this milk which had split was driving me insane! She's never like this, my sister, always sun-kissed- and not spilling things and delicate and dedicate-d echo, echo and echo, when it calls my love, my youth- Up in the mountain, down in the plai

I stood, with my lips slightly parted, at the crossroads of my life, finger upon plump pink lips. The fig trees grew ripe and huge and fertile with fruits. I longed to pick each but each time I drew closer to it, the fig winked and disappeared like a Chesire Cat- the mere hint of its smile lingering in the air, teasing whilst I wasted away to a skeleton longing to choose but failing to do so. Back and forth I went, aiming for everything and achieving nothing- a phrase burst into mind that had no meaning, proclaiming proudly in my mind's eye, 'Verily, with hardship, comes ease.' Having no idea where the idea came from, perhaps from a corner of the mind so rarely engaged I had forgotten its existence. Picking the fig I loved the most was dangerous- beautiful and sweetly seeping juices of illusion that you would enjoy and then when it was done, leave you feeling like Kafka's hunger artist. Ripe for the picking- and ripe for the killing it would leave me vulnerably stre

It runs in the family, whispers of things better left unsaid, the notion that loving is easy and hurting is hard. Why we find it easier to tell kind lies than stab justly with the truth is beyond me... unless of course, hurting is hard. We don't talk about tragedy, It doesn't fit in our melody, We sip tea on rainy days instead of taking in dirty laundry, because, well, hurting is hard. It runs in the family, Always the belief that only our life is the good life- and no one else's but we say none of this to anyone- hurting is too hard. As the rain threatens to pour and the heavens grumble We smile, nod, sit on chairs and sofas but never mumble Chin up, swallow tempers, don't show discontentment, better you be permanently annoyed, suck it up- That's what they tell us... Oh, and also that hurting is hard.

I don't do well in tight spaces, I never have and perhaps this can be traced back to around the times when my grandparents' grandparents were crammed into boats and shipped off- fleeing- always fleeing. I don't do well in tight spaces. I can't see red. Or for a matter of fact, most other colours people see. This too I think can be given a source, a timeline a date an incident, an indelible mark on the ever-changing map of history. Indentation of genetic circumstance manifests itself in my height, my short Jewish legs my eyes that are set deep within my skull my nose that speaks of Iranian plains, my hair that sings the song of the 5 rivers of Punjab. I have upon my cheekbones, the marks of Sikh courage- pointy ridges in an otherwise round soft face. My skin harks from wheat farmers in Punjab and also of shrewd Baghdadi Jewish merchants. My identity explodes into existence at the intersection of a man fleeing prejudice and a woman fleeing pride. I never knew my