Bucket List

Far too much has been written and said about this film. However, when I finally watched Padmavat today, I was left with the most crushing feeling of oppressive sadness. I actually quite enjoyed the movie. It was interesting, a magnificent spectacle (I've always loved Sanjay Leela Bhansali's opulence), amusing in parts (the insanely funny over dramatization of the headless Rajput warriors swinging their swords), slow in some but largely entertaining. I loved how beautiful Deepika looked with the septum ring, how absolutely gorgeous kaajal on Shahid Kapoor was, how brilliantly Ranveer Singh acted and how ethereally Aditi Rao Hydari had been transformed by the Bhansali hand. What I couldn't accept was the demonization of Muslims and the only explanation I could give myself to make it easier for me to tolerate it, was that it was shown to polarize the audience's opinion. Leading them to think that there was no better option than jauhar in the end, for the women, who we

If I were to ask you- what does happiness mean to you, what would you say to me? I shall lead the conversation with my take on it. I believe that happiness, as Aristotle says, is not a state of mind. Rather, it is an activity. I think perpetual, omnipresent happiness is a complete lie and totally misleading because it’s simply unrealistic to believe you can be happy 24x7 or even through most of the day. Simply because majority of the activities we are busy filling up our lives with are almost 90% routine and very rarely ecstatic, since there’s nothing exciting about sitting and reading on a laptop for almost 12 hours a day. Yes, it’s fun sometimes. You're learning. And you’re definitely choosing this. But often, we mistake passion with a sense of a 100% reward in the form of immense joy. We often mistakenly believe that even when we’re following our calling, we’re going to have nothing to complain about anymore because it’s what your heart is asking for. What we forget

The Bird stepped over its nest, ready to fly, her auburn feathers shining like liquid gold mixed with swirls of rich red. A single sound had not escaped her from her birth to this moment, as she flew in search of something, her soul already knew the destination of.  To the world, the beating of her wings was the only giveaway of her existence. It was the first day of her flight. And she didn't stop till it was almost dusk. She hadn't stopped to eat nor drink, her throat parched but pulsating with the sound of her heartbeat, telling her to not rest till she reached where her being pulled her. The sight of the naked, dark, thorn tree is what stopped her, mid-flight. She perched on a branch, uncaring of the short, sharp thorns, rising out of the branches like a possessive lover, confident of its ownership. She searched with eyes, rich with ebony and astoundingly deep. The attentive survey of her sight only ceased when she saw that one particular thorn- of intimidating length

I am often angry. I can't point to a trigger for why I am choosing to write this today, except the crushing atmosphere of patriarchy I find myself struggling to breathe in. It's a phenomenon of great occurence- to be uncomfortable when exposed to a hostile environment but accept it as the norm, when you, for your peace of mind, and before you notice, acknowledge the abnormal, by saying "it's just how it is." Well, that's not okay. If this is how it is, it's high time that bloody change. My college has a peculiar policy. Boys and girls are charged the same amount of hostel fee and yet, girls aren't allotted single rooms till their last year in the 5 year programme we are all enrolled in. Whereas boys have the right to, after their first year. I am angry when I hear a sitting Judge of the High Court tell us that this seething issue between the students themselves and against the administration, is actually an exercise in "women learning how to co

The lonely traveler was trudging up the hill, his breath becoming shallower with every step. He was surprising himself with his body's rebellion against the exertion that was his passion for as long as he could remember. He stopped to breathe in the pristine air of the unadulterated hill-top. His curious eyes, running with naked feet across the vast expanse of the view of undulating mountains, crowned with proud junipers- hungry, as only the starving heart of a poet. His heartbeat spiking, he grinned in exhilaration, just as his gaze was captured by a girl, hardly a day over 12, dressed in red. Her hair was braided through a piece of silver jewellery, cradling her tiny head. Her eyes too honest, her face intensely happy, her small body covered in a too-big kaftan. He called out a question, seeking her name. He received a grin and a movement of her hand, indicating she couldn't speak. He approached her and she stepped towards him warmly. His head bent to capture the sinews

The house is empty. You've collected your belongings in the cradle of your arms. They're sparse and choice. You look at the rooms, now filled with a barren bed, with a used coffee mug forgotten by the bedside, on a table that's broken a leg. You wonder when the once warm, yellow walls started peeling off, the shining wood of the cupboard holding all your favourite books came unhinged and you feel the sadness collect in the wrinkles on the corner of your eyes. But before yearning gets the better of you, you turn quickly around and walk away from your beloved room, the wooden floor creaking in complaint, against your brisk stride. You march straight out of that beautiful blue door that you loved to knock on, when you came home, tired but smiling. You walk, your eyes wandering over the curved path of cobblestones, leading to the gate and you slow down. You turn around. You breathe in the familiar shape of that pretty wooden house, which has a broken stained-glass window in