Death by meeting

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I have woken up
But I'm still not awake
I might look interested
Believe me, it's fake

I am sitting in a call
But my mind is away
I'm wearing a jacket
But I'm thinking of may

The screen is out of focus
And I'm stifling a yawn
I'm sitting in a room
I'd rather sunbathe on a lawn

I have woken up
But I'm still not awake
I might look interested
Believe me, it's fake

I am nodding along
With affirmative sounds
You're paying me in rupees
But I'm spending in pounds!

I pretend to understand
and scribble on my pad
please end this call
or I'll end up mad!

I have woken up
But I'm still not awake
I might look interested
Believe me, it's fake

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All time highs

Bonded in Ink

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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...
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India is Akbar Birbal and Tenali Rama: हमने कभी फर्क नहीं किया

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A lot has been happening in our country over the last few weeks. There has been a lot of talk about it in every form of media available. I myself have been giving a lot of thought to the processions happening all over the country. It is a very complex and complicated issue. On the one hand, I cannot even begin to understand and comprehend the emotions of hundreds of millions of people across the world, who have their emotions invested in this and their joy on the 22nd of January and Ram Mandir. And my love to all of them. It has been a long battle, and they finally got what they had always wanted.  In a serendipitous moment last night, while engrossed in reading Walter Isaacson's "Elon Musk," I came across a chapter about Twitter, talking about Elon Musk and Parag Agarwal. This prompted a train of thought in my mind about the millions of Indians relocating to the USA annually. I imagined a future where, perhaps, a century or two from now, people of Indian origin would con...
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Heat packs and Hindsight

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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. 
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Reclaiming Pink On Our Own Terms.

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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...
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Beyond Boredom

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  I am bored out of my mind, Only if there was something to find, A puzzle or riddle of any kind, To leave this mind-numbing boredom behind. My brain is starved for some stimulation. A physics problem or some math calculation, To engage my mind in deep concentration, And break free from this dull stagnation.
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Fragments of Identity

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Spending a couple of hours in an Apple Store, waiting for my dad's new iPhone to update, turned into an unexpectedly introspective moment. This sleek, glass-walled environment morphs into a stage for human stories, each purchase unfolding its own tale. For some, it's just a routine swap from one model to the next. But for others, it's a milestone—a symbol of ambition, success, and even celebration. I find myself noticing the curious details around me: a steel balti oddly placed on the table, an unexpected relic in this minimalist setting. Nearby, two men with a young child hold onto their new iPhone, looking slightly out of place. For them, it seems like a defining moment—perhaps a reward for their hard work. In another corner, a group of girls gathers around a shiny new pink iPhone, giggling, snapping selfies, and enjoying their new purchase. A newlywed couple sits nearby, their smiles suggesting that the phone in their hands might be a wedding gift, a token for the new ch...
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Is happiness the end goal?

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Is happiness the end goal?? You chase happiness. You look for peace. By definition, chasing means you’re trying to catch up to something. There’s urgency, intensity, and often a sense of over-attachment to an outcome. On the other hand, looking feels more observational, deliberate, and calm. These two words alone capture the difference between the concepts they represent. Happiness is fleeting. It’s a moment in time—a spark at night. Beautiful, yes, but always gone too quickly. Peace, though, is enduring. It’s not a quick flicker; it’s a slow, steady burn that keeps you warm through the night. When you’re chasing happiness, it’s often tied to an external event or achievement: landing that promotion, finally taking that dream vacation, or experiencing a perfect moment. And while those things bring bursts of joy, they don’t last. You hit the milestone, and then what? You’re back on the treadmill, chasing again. Peace, though, is different. It doesn’t hinge on what’s happening around you....
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Five and a Half Years and a Lifetime Ago

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As I make my way from the airport to Bangalore city, nearly six years after I departed from it, memories flood back to me. I reminisce about the time I spent here, recalling one of my closest friends who used to reside near the airport, close to that massive mall. Instinctively, I yearn to visit her - the version of her from back then, in that old neighborhood where I used to travel long hours over the weekends just to be with her. She was like a home to me during those times, always there when I needed her, whether it was after getting too high from smoking up or during moments of conflict with others. We would spend hours watching random TV shows and engaging in heartfelt conversations. Mornings would find us cuddled together, reluctant to face the realities of our adult lives and the responsibilities that accompanied them. I remember driving through the chaotic Bangalore traffic for two hours just to be by her side when she was sick and alone. Our bond was akin to that of family; in...
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The Room of Forgotten Things

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Last week, I had a really lovely dream and woke up nostalgic and happy, with almost a smile. Context: I took a week-long break from work, so my mind was quite at ease and not worrying about meetings and deliverables.  Alright, so coming back to my dream. I am in my college room (the one I lived in during my 3rd year). I was maybe visiting campus or coming back after a break, but that wasn't very clear to me. Alright, so I am in my room, and it is very cluttered and full of things such as books, photographs, clothes, guitars, harmoniums, pens, notebooks with a clothing line going right through the middle of the room, and whatnot.  As I took a closer look at the things in the room and checked the cupboard, it started returning to me. These are things that I have lost or forgotten about, all sitting in that room for me to discover and explore. There is a pile of books, and atop is a Manchester United book that I had gifted my husband last year on his birthday while we were in Goa...
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Book Review | Yellowface | Obscurity to Overnight Success: But for How Long?

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Bite-sized Review:   Yellowface, picked up on my brother's recommendation, initially lingered untouched on my table. The narrative follows Athena and June, writers tethered by an unusual connection. As June gains success riding on her "best" friend's demise, the book explores themes of ownership and plagiarism. Despite a slower pace after 200 pages, it remains a riveting tale that unexpectedly jolts, leaving you intrigued. A compelling and engaging read. Full Review: I picked up Yellowface on my brother's recommendations.  Purchasing it on instinct during a shopping excursion with my childhood friend, the book rested on my table for several days, patiently awaiting attention.  I somehow did not feel like picking it up. It has not been a great book year for me, and maybe I wasn't ready for another disappointment. But after about two weeks, I decided to finally open the book and start reading. A mere five pages in, it showed the hint of a promise and seemed rem...
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