Just Writing Stuff Down

There’s something about late nights that mornings will never understand. Mornings are disciplined. They come with alarms, routines, healthy breakfasts, “good morning” texts, and a sense of responsibility. Mornings are about doing what you  should  be doing. Nights, though? Nights are rebels. Late nights don’t care about schedules. They don’t care that you have class at 8 AM or a pile of assignments glaring at you from the desk. Late nights whisper,  “Sit with me for a while. The world is quieter now. Nobody’s watching. Nobody’s expecting.” And in that silence, something magical happens. The version of you that’s too busy surviving in the day finally comes out to live. You start thinking about the weirdest things—like, who decided bananas were yellow? Or why socks always disappear in pairs? Or sometimes, you think about life in a way that feels too heavy for daylight. Conversations hit differently at night too. The 11 PM chat is logistics: “Did you eat?” “What’s the plan t...

Every morning feels like I’m starring in the same tragic rom-com: me and my bed are in true love, but the villain of the story—school—just won’t let us be together. And the sad part? Alarms aren’t even in the picture. I don’t use alarms. If I did, I’d miss school seven days a week. That’s why I have Papa. He’s my very own alarm clock with a heart—aka princess treatment.  And his Elementary, My Dear Watson line?  “Soja baby, sona ho toh.”  Every. Single. Morning. That’s his signature dialogue. He says it like he’s offering me a palace of sleep, velvet curtains, a lullaby, the whole deal. And of course, all I want to do is melt back into my rajai and say, “Haan papa, MUJHE TOH RAASTA AND BAHANA CHAHIYE.” He's not a psychology student, damn, can he play reverse psychology well! Then I surrender to the 75% attendance rule is standing there with a danda, ready to end my career before it even starts. So I drag myself out. Hair messy, eyes half-shut, soul not present. Then ...

So there I was, minding my own business, walking to my car during diseprsal when another one of those  MG Windsors  slithered past me — silent, soulless, smug. I got so mad. It almost touched me and I couldn't feel it. Hazardous af. I swear, it’s like these EVs are designed to make you feel like you’re in a dystopian sci-fi film where cars no longer roar… they hum. And that’s when I knew — this conversation was overdue. Let’s get one thing straight: Dad never bought me Barbies. I had a box full of Hot Wheels and LEGO sets that were not castles or dollhouses but helicopters and aircrafts. I still do. My love affair with cars started the way most 2000s kids got into romance — animated fiction.  Cars  the movie. Lightning McQueen was my first crush. Then came  Ford v Ferrari  (which basically injected octane into my veins), then the  Fast & Furious  franchise (all of it, yes, I still crush on Brian's R34 with the blue rim lights), ...