Oblivion

In my 20s, I was blessed, Whiskey nights and zero rest. Functioning with no sleep Sleep deprived, but perfect knees I track my protein like buried gold, Count my steps like I’m told Gone are they days of stale fries Holding her back *aru cries* By 9pm my body is drained Oh another muscle is sprained. Did I get enough fiber this week?  Going to cult is my only streak! Once I lived on Maggi and junk A quarter of whiskey also drunk Ohh flaxseeds, chia, nuts too, Honestly, who even are you? So here’s to aging, pain and grace, Tracking health like it’s a race. But deep inside, I’m still that vibe— Just now with heat packs by my side. 

For many of us women, the imposition of pink in our childhood felt unwelcome. It wasn’t just that pink was the color assigned to girls or that we looked undeniably cute in it—it was what the color stood for. It marked us as different from the boys, a quiet but constant reminder that we were expected to be softer, gentler—or maybe, weaker. The words “you throw like a girl” or “stop crying like a girl” reinforced this narrative, reducing our identity to something lesser, something to be corrected. People treated us differently. Everyone treated us differently. Boys were allowed to be just that—boys. But we, the girls, had limits. No one expected the boys to help with ghar ka kaam , but we were encouraged—no, expected —to absorb these values from an early age. We weren’t supposed to be rowdy, loud, or “boisterous.” We were taught to be quiet, calm, and graceful. Pretty. Pretty in pink. Over time, I started to detach from pink, pushing away everything it symbolized—everything associa...

Traditions make us feel closer to those who came before us, keeping their presence alive in small, familiar ways. They remind us that we’re part of something bigger—a history, a community, a shared experience. They give us a sense of belonging, grounding us in who we are and where we come from. I recently got a tattoo on my wrist. A Marathi word written in Malayalam. Since then, every time I look at it, I think of my grandmother—my father’s mother. She passed away when I was 12. Next year, it’ll be two decades since she left. We weren’t particularly close, just the usual grandmother-granddaughter relationship. She’d ask me to save sweets for my dad, and I’d tease her by eating them right in front of her. Just to annoy her. When she was paralyzed on her left side, I was a little scared. She invented a game—letting me pinch her left arm as hard as I wanted because she couldn’t feel it, but on the right, she’d react dramatically. I remember her in her little granny bed, sometimes scold...