Dirty Talk
Real talk is dirty. It’s not that I have forgotten stage fright.
Finding home & a sense of belonging within shifting identity politics of geography, region, language, politics, ideologies and culture.
Real talk is dirty. It’s not that I have forgotten stage fright.
I got a painfully bad haircut. What could I do? Would throwing a tantrum change it? Instead, I learnt.
I’ve never thought of myself as a dog person. I was chased by a dog in my youth and another one later. I’ve held my breath trying to quell panic through dog-owners insisting that their pets are harmless babies, that I shouldn’t worry and that anybody who hates dogs is…
It is the face of a woman that the world likes to call a Strong Woman. It is a tired look. A jaded look. A bored look. A dismissive look.
The Novelty Girl. The Character In Someone Else’s Coming of Age Story. The Manic Pixie Dream Girl. The Guilty Pleasure. The Bucket-list Woman. Names I’ve been called.
“She tried to be the kind of person that interesting things happened to.”
Writing was my catharsis, till it became my crutch. A paper plane showed me the way out.
Please don’t ask me to read you. I’ve spent far too long looking deep into other people.
I like the word ‘abundance’. It signifies so much more than wealth or any other kind of material possession.
I’m enjoying the company of books & plants. For the first time these don’t feel like escape from the loneliness between men. It makes my past feel like vertigo.