Just Writing Stuff Down

 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...

So yesterday was…  a moment.  Like, one of those random “I’ll remember this when I’m 30” moments. Because today, ladies and gentlemen, I had my  first drink. A gin mojito. Before you go all “Ambika’s gone rogue”, relax. It was  15 ml.  Barely enough to get a mosquito drunk. But the point isn’t the alcohol. It’s the fact that  my parents got it made for me. Yup. Mum and Dad. The people who made sure I had two spoons of vodka as a 3-4 year old so they could enjoy themselves and avoid dealing with my cranky business. The same people who didn't pull the two breezer bottles out of my mouth when I chugged them both at once! They instead laughed and clicked pictures. They didn’t freak out, they didn’t give me the “alcohol is bad” speech, cuz well it isn't! They made sure I tried everything and felt comfortable enough to ask them for a drink and talk to them about anything! Yesterday, Dad offered ki why don't you have one too? I was like sure!  They just smile...

I’ve been dancing since I was four years old. Back then, Navratri was just about twirling around in a frock, clapping completely offbeat, and thinking I was the star of the garba ground. But the older you get, the more things change. Suddenly it’s not just about dance—it’s about outfits. Looking good becomes… important. Matlab ekdum “main heroine hoon” vibes. That’s when the real drama starts. Weeks before Navratri, the whole house becomes a fashion studio. Chaniya trials, blouse alterations, messy rooms full of jewellery sprawled everywhere, mix-and-match accessories ka dukan. You’ll plan an entire “lehenga schedule”—Day 1 this, Day 2 that—only to panic when you’re actually getting ready and end up changing the whole plan. Then comes the pre-ground rituals: pass ka jugaad, matching bindis, eyeliner wings that never wing right, lipstick ka shade confusion, then taking photos while mom screams from the hall because “traffic lagega!” And bro, the traffic… it’s like the whole city is head...