I was looking up sarees online. My mother thought my choices might not look that impressive on video calls. I told her, “The pandemic will not last forever.” Three-fourths of a year into a global shutdown, I can see how it can be difficult to remember this. In addition, the…
I left work late but determined to use the remaining hours. The back of the cab was silent. I got to my to-call list, hitting deadends. I paused for those rare seconds in a Mumbai day when one thinks of absolutely nothing. Then I realised I was flying. Riding flyovers…
May you find peace in the grey of twilight when you travel the land of shadows.
I am a gardener.
My garden is paradise.
I broke a glass ceiling of my own, as a student representing my college on the campus festival circuit.
This boxy is a box. It is not me. When you trap my identity in labels of gender, regional feature, skin colour, this body makes me feel like a prisoner.
Can you miss someone who died before you ever met them? Yes, if you are a reader. I miss Marsha Mehran.
This picture was shot in January 2020. I had no idea that the what the years ahead would bring.
A boundary is a lesson in consent. It’s rooted in a sense of self. Who you are, says what you allow.
I thought about people who hit me. In plural. I experienced enough before adulthood. Yet at 23, when a man I loved hit me, I knew something was wrong.