Just Writing Stuff Down

Mirror Mirror on the wall, Who is the me-est of them all? Today I had an interesting discussion with Mumma about social media. About jealousy. About this constant one upping as if life has quietly turned into some never ending scoreboard where everyone is refreshing to check who is ahead. I agree that money matters. Fame can open doors. Influence can create opportunities that talent alone sometimes cannot. I am not pretending none of that counts. It does. We live in a world where visibility can change your life. But the real question is how much of it is enough before it slowly starts owning you instead of you owning it. This race we are all running, sometimes willingly and sometimes without even realizing it, does not end at fame. It does not end at money. It does not end at a blue tick or a brand collaboration or a story view count. After the fame comes comparison. After the comparison comes insecurity. After insecurity comes the desperate need to show that you are still winning. And...

Helloooo! It’s been nearly 1.5 months since I last wrote. Today, like most days, I have nothing to write about. And yet—because this blog has somehow made its way onto Facebook—there is  clearly  something written below. I genuinely don’t know what to talk about. So let’s talk Bridgerton. If you haven’t already watched it, I hope this post convinces you to do so. You know how there are some shows that mean absolutely nothing—pure drama, mindless romance—and yet they’re wildly addictive? Bridgerton is exactly that. An elegant orchestral piece blending classical Regency-era styles with modern sensibilities, dominated by violins and harp. The theme perfectly sets the tone for Netflix’s romantic, dramatic, contemporary, and scandalous take on London high society. It’s based on the Bridgerton books, but honestly, it’s one of those rare cases where watching is far better than reading. When the show first came out, I was younger and couldn’t care less about what happened to that one ...

 Heyaaaaa! Long time no see.  It's been ages since I've written a blog, and I thought, why not do it right now?  So I don't have anything in mind as such, but I've got this random thought about hands. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't have weird limb kinks.  Okay, so girls, you'll get me on this for sure! Boys, if you do, either you have a crush on some girl, you're committed, or you're just a little gay-ish.  Do you ever look at your hands and see cut nails, blunt tips, overgrown cuticles, and a small nail bed? I do too, yeah. Do you ever just paint them? Where one dip in the polish covers 6 nails? I do it too. Do you afterwards wear rings and head out for your errands? You got me. I do it too.  After a while, do you look at your hands? If you do, THEY LOOK LIKE BABY SHREK. Like someone stuffed up those fancy napkin holder rings up your finger.  And then comes the betrayal. Because in your head, these were supposed to be  model hands . L...

So I already posted a mini rant about this on my page, because my brain refused to keep quiet, but Insta captions are too tiny for everything I wanted to say. So here I am, writing the full blog because obviously I have more to say. I always have more to say. Today was supposed to be a normal day. Study psychology, pretend to be productive, maybe take notes, maybe highlight four lines and call myself a scholar. Instead, I ended up sitting with  The Outsider  in my hand and somehow 70 pages later I’m in the middle of an identity crisis and also strangely peaceful.  I bought this book thinking it might be one of those autobiography types where the author gives advice they don’t even follow. But this one doesn’t feel like that. It feels like Vir just sat down across from me and started talking. It’s like conversing about the outsider with the outsider as an outsider. Wild.  And maybe that’s why it hit so hard. Because I’ve always sort of been this person who doesn’t ful...

Diwali just hits differently, doesn’t it? Like there’s something about it that automatically puts a smile on your face — no matter what your week’s been like. You could be tired, stressed, failing at life, but the second someone says  “Diwali aa rahi hai,”  your brain goes into hyper-festive mode. Suddenly, you want to clean everything, light everything, decorate everything, and basically act like you’ve had your shit together all year. The preparations start way before Diwali actually does. It’s not just a festival; it’s a full-time project. Cleaning, organizing, washing bedsheets that haven’t seen daylight since last summer, changing the  moorti ke kapde , buying new diyas, running around for gifts, mithai, and those little boxes of dry fruits that no one eats but we still gift anyway. Rangolis that look so beautiful for 3 minutes until someone steps on them or the wind decides to ruin your art. And then there’s the moment everyone waits for —  buying crackers . It...

To My Person, On Her 17th Birthday ❤️ Seventeen. SEVENTEEN. How did we even get here? You’re literally growing up without me and I hate it. I wish we’d grown up together — gone to the same school, the same random cafés, the same stupid parties — just to make a thousand more memories I’d never shut up about. You know how everyone has someone? That one person who just gets them. The kind of person who doesn’t need explanations — who knows what you mean when you say nothing at all. Who sees through your calm and still knows when something’s off. Who somehow always feels like home, even across cities. That’s her. Thats my gavyu. She’s my person. She walked into my life as a child, quiet, calm and completely opposite to my personality! Soon after hanging out which means going to the same dance classes, we mutually decided that we love each other and we need each other. I guess god knew that a bond as strong as ours would merely be affected by distance.  She’s the kind of human who’d cor...