Juggle writing and a medical career is a challenge for me but my friend Niv, short for Dr. Nivedita Lakhera, makes it looks easy. We met at Regional Medical Center in San Jose, Cal.—me wiping mysterious brown fluid from my scrub pants and Niv showing me a copy of her poetry book, “Pillow of Dreams.”
For the next 11 months, “Pillow of Dreams” would hold the number one spot on Amazon for being the most five-star reviewed poetry book and go on to win the prestigious Silke Irana award. Niv’s newest book of poems, “I am not a princess, I am a complete fairytale,“ will release on April 15, 2019, so I decided to catch up with her and talk about poetry and female empowerment.
[Allison Bekric (L) and Dr. Nivedita Lakhera (R). Photo credit: Stephanie Masullo.]
Why do you write?
I cannot not write. Poetry is a compulsion; I have this intense need to express myself. Also, as human beings, we look for examples. Someone on Instagram was going through a tough time and asked me to send her a poem. If you’re vulnerable it gives others permission to be vulnerable and get through heartbreak. Words can become legs for someone who cannot walk or wings for someone who is drowning. Words are powerful; words can save you.
For you, is poetry a way to heal pain?
Pain takes you inside of you. Suppose I had a heartbreak. I have to go inside of me. Pain takes you inside of you, kills the things that are not helping you and helps you grow the things that are helping you grow. You need to let pain do its thing. If you accept your pain—work through it—beautiful things happen.
How does accepting pain lead to empowerment?
When we see someone who is successful we say, ‘Bravo.’ We see smiling selfies, amazing selfies. Not “What a journey they had!” We don’t see the story of assault or failure. We don’t see that because of shame. I think, finally, with the #MeToo movement we see a shift happening. We have to open these wounds… We have to make it normal for our generation. Each generation has a responsibility to normalize things about women that have become the biggest hurdle to our progress.
Do you think shame is the biggest hurdle for a woman?
You need to disassociate from anything associated with shame. Put it in a paper bag and burn it.Women, especially in Asian and Indian cultures, have been conditioned from the very start to be put in a mold made of shame. From showing their skin to their choice of being single to their choice of being married to the choice of being childless—any woman who dares go outside that mold it’s like the whole family’s honor is gone and the shame is set at her feet. How the hell will they have a place in their mind to do anything? How can anyone create? How can anyone innovate? How can anyone educate? How can anyone lead? You never know where the genius lies. When you take so much from half the people of the planet, how can society move forward?
What advice would you give girls who feel they are not doing enough?
Pause. Your life is not about doing enough; it’s about experiences. Having conversations, meditating over things, learning about yourself, accepting that your thoughts may change, accepting yourself even if your thoughts do not match society’s. Challenging yourself, especially falling down, is very important. Woman have been conditioned to play it safe more than any other gender. We forget we are divine. Each of us is the universe trying to express itself through the form of flesh; each of us is a born goddess.
Below is a poem titled, “Not an Invitation,” excerpted from Lakhera’s latest collection:
my “pretty” is not an invitation
it’s not an invitation
till i invite you
it’s not an invitation
even if we sleep in the same bed
married to each other
legally and religiously declared as man and wife
it’s not an invitation
even if my dress is not what
your family, your own mind,
your strict manuals of code or conduct, your religion, your country
or anyone anything except me has decided “appropriate” and makes you believe
“asking for it.”
it’s not an invitation
if i just underwent or ever underwent gender reassignment surgery, gender neutral, gender fluid – unclear, man or woman, labeled or not labeled, body type – with or without society approved perfections or imperfections- with or without curves
it’s not an invitation
if i am – passionate, shy, sensuous, docile, virgin, non-virgin, monogamous, polyamorous, dominant, forward, backward, as per your own interpretation
it’s not an invitation
if I’m a pole dancer, stripper, rocket scientist, journalist, friend, sex worker, doctor, homeless, drug addict, co-founder of a company pitching you an idea, a student, a struggling or established actress, wife, daughter, sister, caretaker, or in any and every role
it’s not an invitation
if i said at first yes and then changed my mind
or we had it one time already so i should be ok when you feel like it again
it’s not an invitation
because i got drunk, or i got sober, or i am playing easy or hard to get
or because i am celebrating or suppressing my sexuality or lack of it
it’s not an invitation
whether i am wearing a bikini, hijab, sari, skirt, bare-skin, or any whatsoever or nothing
it’s not an invitation
it’s not an invitation
it’s not an invitation
till i say it is
till then you are not welcome
and you are in violation
of highest degree
and you are committing a crime
and it will never be my shame
it will be your shame
oh and while we are at it
there is no such thing called “asking for it.”
if i want i will “ask “
your entitlement is not my responsibility
your ignorance will be your suffering, not mine
just remember
it’s not an invitation till i invite you
till i say yes
it’s a no
and as someone wise once said very well
“no” is a complete sentence
The opinions expressed by the guest writer/blogger and those providing comments are theirs alone and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Brown Girl Magazine, Inc., or any employee thereof. Brown Girl Magazine is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the guest writer/bloggers. This work is the opinion of the blogger. It is not the intention of Brown Girl Magazine to malign any religion, ethnic group, club, organization, company, or individual. If you’d like to submit a guest post, please follow the guidelines we’ve set forth here.
Social media has stretched a number of news headlines:
“Social media rots kids’ brains.”
“Social media is polarizing.”
Yet those most affected by social media ideals are the teenage users. Apps like Instagram and TikTok perpetuate an image of perfection that is captured in pictures and 30-second videos. As a result, many young women chase this expectation endlessly. “Her” personifies this perfection in an unattainable figure the narrator has always wished to be. These ideals deteriorate mental health, create body dysmorphia, promote a lack of self-esteem, and much more. Even so, social media is plagued by filters and editing—much of what we hope to achieve isn’t even real. Therefore, young women, much like the narrator of “Her,” strive for a reality that doesn’t even exist.
When she walked into my life
Her smile took up two pages of description
In a YA novel.
My arms could wrap around her waist twice
If she ever let anyone get that close
Her hair whipped winds with effortless beach waves
And a hint of natural coconut
Clothing brands were created around her
“One Size Fits All” one size to fit the girl who has it all
With comments swarning in hourglasses
But when sharp teeth nip at her collar,
She could bite back biting back
And simply smirked with juicy apple lips
Red hearts and sympathy masking condescension
“My body doesn’t take away from the beauty of yours”
“We are all equal, we are all beautiful”
Beauty
A sword she wields expertly
Snipping, changing,
Aphrodite in consistent perfection
Cutting remarks with sickly sweet syrup
And an innocent, lethal wink
When she walked into my life
She led my life.
My wardrobe winter trees
Barren, chopped in half
Unsuited for the holidays
Mirrors were refracted under in my gaze
Misaligned glass was the only explanation
For unsymmetrical features
And broken hands
Still I taped them fixed
Over and over
Poking, prodding
Hoping to mold stomach fat like wet clay
Defy gravity,
Move it upward
To chest
Instead of sagging beneath a belt on the last hole
In the spring
She would stir me awake at 2 AM
“You need to be me”
Lies spilled from her tongue but
Solidified, crystallized
Fabrication spelled dichotomy
And I drifted farther out to sea
When she walked out of my life,
I was drowning.
Reliance had me capsized
Others witnessed
Furrowed brows and glances away
Like spectators of a shark attack
They can watch but the damage is done
They clung to my mangled pieces
Gravestones spelled
“Stressed”
“Depressed”
But I was mourning too
Today I looked back at my mirror
But glass turned into prism
Broken pieces rainbow
Colors coating clothes
She didn’t pick
Aphrodite
Perception changing
She wasn’t perfect
Just lost at sea
The opinions expressed by the guest writer/blogger and those providing comments are theirs alone and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Brown Girl Magazine, Inc., or any employee thereof. Brown Girl Magazine is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the guest writer/bloggers. This work is the opinion of the blogger. It is not the intention of Brown Girl Magazine to malign any religion, ethnic group, club, organization, company, or individual. If you’d like to submit a guest post, please follow the guidelines we’ve set forth here.
I organize play dates for my children. They’re friendships remind me of when I was younger when Fridays were consistently set aside for my friends. Now, it seems play is indeed meant for childhood and work is for aging adults. We often can’t find time for ourselves, let alone our friends, who are busy working mothers like ourselves. Or we moved into unreachable corners of this globe, far away from any means of physical communication. It’s fair to say, it’s hard to stay close to friends like when we were in college. Nowadays, it’s easier to travel, but more difficult to bond with others. “My Friend” asserts that we should not end let our friendships fall by the wayside. Even with physical distance and conflicting schedules, we keep our friendships close with kind words on phone calls, regular FaceTime calls, or even encouraging social media comments. Friendship doesn’t end once we become adults.
The opinions expressed by the guest writer/blogger and those providing comments are theirs alone and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Brown Girl Magazine, Inc., or any employee thereof. Brown Girl Magazine is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the guest writer/bloggers. This work is the opinion of the blogger. It is not the intention of Brown Girl Magazine to malign any religion, ethnic group, club, organization, company, or individual. If you’d like to submit a guest post, please follow the guidelines we’ve set forth here.
“Confessions to a Moonless Sky” is a meditation on the new moon and guilt. I wrote it when I was living in Dallas and was driving back from a dusk prayer. The new moon terrified me on that drive. I was diseased by the knowledge that my partner, at the time, had seen the worst parts of me. There’s immense shame in this piece—it seized my self-image. If the moon could become brand new, then I could start over.
I often ponder on the moon’s reflective nature and pairs of eyes. I’m hyper-fixated on how I am seen by others. Unfortunately, the brilliance of seeing your reflection in another person leads to negativity. After all, those who are too keen on their own reflection are the same people who suffer from it. It is possible to use shame to fuel one’s retribution and personal growth, without becoming consumed by it.
We can look to Shah Rukh Khan succumbing to alcoholism in his own sorrow and then later imbibing his sadness in Chandramukhi. “Confessions to a Moonless Sky” is a lesson for us: Don’t be Shah Rukh Khan in Devdas, instead embody pre-incarnation Shah Rukh Khan in Om Shanti Om!
Sometimes when the moon abandons the sky, I wonder if I drove her away.
If she comes back, will she be the same? How I wish she would come back new, truly new! That way she’d have no memory of the sin I’ve confessed to her. You noxious insect. Sin-loving, ego-imbibing pest. You are no monster, for at least a monster has ideology, it sins with purpose. You sin just to chase ignominy.
But the moon won’t say that, she never does. She’ll just leave the sky and return days later, slowly. And I’ll wonder if she’s new, perhaps she won’t remember my past confessions. What does it matter? Were the moon replaced with one from a different god, I’d drive her away, too.
