William Faulkner said that the best place for a writer is a brothel. Because it is unnervingly quiet in the morning and always alive and partying.

It is a completely different world with millions of untold stories.

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It's weird how we try to hate the person we love the most, fail at it, and love them deeper than we did before. This is what it is like to have a husband or a wife.

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Love comes with forgetting what we were before meeting you.

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It better to be forgotten than to be remembered inappropriately.

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It's weird how easily replaceable a person is in someone's life. All you need to do is stop calling or texting first.

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You don't know how much of a life is left for you. So, why spend it on escaping life, better keep experiencing life, and see all the wonders that it has to offer.

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In the remaining minutes inside the annual fair, I was looking at all the wonderful displays which I desired but could not have; when this conversation between a man and wife floated into my ears.
Wife (to a Pickle shopkeeper) - Do you have that particular fry?
Shopkeeper- Yea, How much should I pack?
Husband (jeeringly and pretty loud)- Your wants don't have a limit, even after an entire tour of the fair and buying all that, you still can't stop.
Lady (almost reduced to tears) - They only have those in such fairs and you love to have them with rice and tea.

My heart broke at her comment. I secretly promised myself to be independent enough to afford my own sets of delicacies. Zillion ladies regularly are tolerating their abusive husbands, and we have a long way to go.

So get up and get going towards a future where no man can rebuke you for your lack of income and you don't have to beg/ask even a single person to provide you with things that bring you joy.

Let that be your contribution towards empowerment.

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There is no greater independence for a female than monetary independence.

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Not every love story reaches its fulfillment. Some are better off from a safe distance.

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Everytime Rhea went to school swinging her vogue schoolbag, some creepy eyes followed her down the road. She pressed her hand deep inside the bag and felt the warm familiar touch of the hammer. It would be her fiftieth murder and she would look into his eyes and crush his head open licking the blood that oozed out of his good-for-nothing skull.

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