Don’t Call Me TamBram
I am not a Tamilian. I am not a Brahmin. You erase my identity and you insult my legacy when you call me a TamBram.
Commentary on current social affairs. Intersectional feminism examining questions of gender, sex, sexuality, caste, class, race, religion & other discriminators.
I am not a Tamilian. I am not a Brahmin. You erase my identity and you insult my legacy when you call me a TamBram.
I went for a swim and then I went on a date.
There’s a certain kind of man who gets off on sad women. It’s an entire trope – The Depressed/Tortured/Troubled/Damsel-in-distress that the guy ‘rescues’ with minimal emotional investment by clowning around. He is not a Manic Pixie Dream Guy. No, the original in that trope is not a person and only…
It’s precarious because what can balance atop slime for very long?
Knowledge is food for hungry minds.
‘A minute of silence’ by Marina Abramovic moved me to tears. I knew it had lessons for me that I wasn’t yet ready for.
You should smile more, women are told, it makes you look good. This is said as a compliment but is erasure.
Do you remember your last kiss? Everyone remembers their first. But kisses lose significance as we get older.
I spotted this tree at the junction of a rapidly disappearing Mumbai and the greedy new city emerging in its place.
It was respite from the morning’s fight, a common occurrence in the horror story I lived in. It didn’t feel right.