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We live in a land where walking is not free, where safety rides on the company we keep or the shadow of a family driver, tried and tested with years of no sleep. – My fellow women, our safety is bought with money, our freedom bartered for fear, while harassment roams freely. – Now, years
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Roaming through an antique store in a small American town,I stumbled on a cigarette ad from the 1950s. A woman so charming, so confident, staring straight at us,blowing smoke into the audience’s face,you’d want to be her,you’d want to feel that smoke crawl out of your own lips. Dressed in the finest outfit in town,
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You had already decided: your soul wanted to fly, not linger. – It was our hope. I told myself it was enough to know you were there, in a room, on a bed, with a nurse, with Nani by your side, anxious, praying, waiting for the man she once knew, the brighter, older version of
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My nanu, When I was ten, He was my summer school teacher, my entertainer, the keeper of change for fried food in the mornings, rajma chawal summers, and always, toffees. – As I grew, he became my friend, the one I whispered secrets to about boys and heartbreaks, while he slipped out quietly, afraid Nani
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One fine rainy day, we had to cancel our biking around the lake plans, and instead, I found myself getting treated for a Bartholin’s cyst. They slid a one-inch needle into my vagina, to numb it. It was so painful. They cut it, drained it, and still, the pain clung to me. Pain layered over
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You know,I’ve always been a traveler,by heart,not by exploration. Always a wonderful packer,the perfect amount of things,a little extra if things went wrong.Something for everyone,and plenty for me,especially for me. I was never running toward something,just walking.Walking toward knowing myself better.Walking toward something.Full stop.Anything. Some years ago,when I was stuck in a rut,my dad said
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I like to linger. I’ll share pieces of me, and I’ll listen to you. Lingering, I’ll tell you about me, and I’ll want to know about you. Even if it’s a temporary place, I make it my home. Even if it has an end, the journey should be mine; painted in my colours, shaped by
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Once upon a time… A very “successful-on-paper” woman told her that her tattoo was provocative. She didn’t react. Not immediately. Just filed it away as the woman went on: “I don’t get girls who wear tight T-shirts with things written across the chest. Don’t be a hypocrite. Just admit you want guys to look. So
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On the usual journey from Delhi to Bangalore, anxiety trailed my steps for months. However, today, as I bid farewell to Bangalore for a while, those familiar jitters lingered. Bangalore, we’ve covered a considerable distance, you’re more than a city; you’re home.
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People keep saying, “You guys had a hard launch. It might be difficult for you guys.” But it’s not difficult because of the hard launch, people. It’s not because we moved too fast; it’s not because we stayed together. It’s because of the same ache, the one that says it’s time to leave. Yes, it’s
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Clueless Ink 