Millennial cousin reclaiming and returning to the art of cooking because she likes to, not because she is forced to.For generations, the kitchen was never just a room for women, it was a border they were not allowed to cross. It was passed down like an heirloom, not the gold but the silence, something inherited without ceremony yet attached to their identity. Girls were handed ladles without the choice of creativity but compliance. Cooking was never introduced to them as a li

Nana ji (maternal grandfather) handling his wife's medicines, etc (since five decades) and taking care of her and home defying the societal norms.Men have been, since ages handed a script to follow; a script written in stone. A script that calls for strength without softness, confidence without confusion, anger without vulnerability. Somewhere along the way ‘man enough’ became a phrase men were expected to live up to, a phrase without definition. And perhaps, the revelation i

AI-Generated Instagram logo There was a time when posting felt like opening a window. The generation before us would click a picture of half-eaten cake, blurred sunsets, red-eyed hostel nights, and simply throw it into the blue ocean of Facebook or the early, filter-soaked lanes of Instagram. No lighting check. No grid planning. No existential crisis over captions. It was digital littering in the most beautiful way; messy, honest, alive. Posted. Done. Life, unedited. Now, we

I froze Image from ET Government There is a particular kind of silence that enters a person after fraud. Not the silence of peace, but the silence of disbelief. The kind where your mind keeps replaying the moment again and again, trying to locate the exact second where trust became foolishness. I did not scream. I did not cry instantly. I froze. One thing I know for sure is that my words would never commit a fraud like all the other spaces in the world right now. Words, at le

AI-Generated Image Somewhere in the recent years, I realised I am living inside a marketplace disguised as a world. Everywhere I turn, someone is selling a new way to be beautiful, to be productive, to be put-together, to be ‘aesthetic’. And I won’t lie; I too have fallen for it. I have bought things because they looked like the life I wanted, not the life I actually had. A ceramic mug seemed to promise calm mornings. A journal thick enough to hold a hundred versions of me, e