The Grey of Thirty-Four
I’m hitting the unremarkable age of thirty-four. Unremarkable, not unimportant.
Navigating complex emotions of jealousy, ambition, insecurity, joy, fear, peace, anger, happiness, betrayal, contentment, disappointment, love.
I’m hitting the unremarkable age of thirty-four. Unremarkable, not unimportant.
It’s noble to care about humanity’s health. But doctors today misdiagnose, over prescribe and charge exorbitant fees for what they do. How is this noble?
I almost said no and called this post ‘Not A Party Girl’. Instead, today I chose my Inner Madonna.
The past is a drunk ex-husband.
The future is a mysterious, smiling stranger.
The first week of June spells pre-monsoon showers in Mumbai.
This show makes me painfully aware of how much 1960s New York sounds like Mumbai in 2013. Where does a woman stand?
Hello. I am an Angry Woman. This is not the same thing as Angry Girl that gives rise to a subculture of music and other pop references. It has only partly to do with my age.
Today’s short story is about the power of lines – physical and intangible. The prompt was a famous Bollywood dialogue, which also appears in the story.
A short story about the truth behind the peaceful family.
Turena wipes the wood-top desk and arranges the white sheet over it. It’s impractical, she has been told, but that’s what an architect would think. No artist would deny the magic of a white surface, the dichotomy of blank or plain, the lure of bleeding the pristine. Funnily enough, that…