As the photos transfer through, I see a 2x slideshow onto play. I cannot catch up with the speed so I finally open the folder and start viewing them seperately, one by one, diving deep into the rabbit hole of my golden years. A plethora of memories weigh me down as I keep clicking the next button. But more than the memories, a variety of questions run through my mind and I find myself hyper fixated on the one “was I happy enough?” like actual happiness. no play pretend. I can’t tell you if I got a specific answer or not but I surely was very confused on my part.

You see, more often than not we look at old carousels of pictures from a specific time of this big life and we think to ourselves: “oh I used to be so happy/ healthy this time around” “oh the scars on my face used to be less prominent then” or “we had such a blast then” but are these conclusions that we reach to really true? I don’t think so. a possible explanation is that we capture photos of the luminous moments of life. the easy moments. the moments that we would want to remember and reminisce about, say, ten years down the drain. What happens off-camera is something we remember. the photos don’t. There are ugly moments. brittle relationships. The almost physical fights we don’t wanna recollect. We humans love to look flawless, even to ourselves. We love to very conveniently forget the bad parts like nightmares we don’t wanna go back to. We have a habit of laminating the past and keeping it like a trophy on the front shelf of the room for everyone to see. we super glue certain fragments of the past with us and leave out the rest. We put on a veil of pink and then judge the remnants of it.

Now of course you’ll ask me, isn’t that the whole point of life? To keep the best people and incidents in the SD card/ and leave out the unpleasant ones? I’d agree with you too because I find myself a human too, even I’d want my prefrontal cortex to swell with happy memories, not ugly. But at the same time, I don’t wanna to keep myself under an illusion and view the past through a rose-tinted lens. I want to remember perfect and clear memories of who I was, who I surrounded myself with, what were my passions/ hobbies on particular time stamps of the past too.

Stumbling upon a picture of my fifth birthday, if I faintly remember, was a whole day trip with my parents. The first few hours of the day went into exploring the more popular parts of the city and when we had successfully mapped all of them we headed to the queiter ones. One such place was statue circle. A decently calm gardenesque place where either couples or old folks came to spend some time away from the noise of everyday. for some reason, I never saw any families there except mine but it was totally fine by me because that meant my parents wouldn’t force me into sharing my toys and stuff with totally unknown stranger kids like they did at the public park. It was my birthday after all. I was the main character (a lil grumpy one haha). I had put on my beautiful blue dress with my matching blue star shaped hair clip and felt as pretty as a child could, at that age. Afternoon bled into evening, and finally I had to cut the cake. I remember wishing for loads of new dresses and toys. I also remember accidentally breaking an artefact my father had gotten from his workplace. I was scolded and shouted upon like anything. And I was locked out of my home for an hour because of this, I remember that too. I wanted to, but I can’t forget the ugly parts you see. I can’t forget the time when I was unable to solve an algebra question on the blackboard and could sense the evident dissatisfaction on our my maths tutor’s face. “I’ll hit you with a tight slap”, she said. And the next thing I knew my cheek was red. I could feel the burning, It would’ve been red. violence & violence & violence. I could feel every bone & limb in my body then.

And then there was ten year old me, grown up, but of course still a child. I don’t remember what in the world had I even done for this, but all of a sudden my clothes were being packed into a suitcase by my father. He pulled me firmly by the hand and I was being stuffed in the car along with the suitcase, bawling my eyes out. What had I even done? I couldn’t comprehend it for the life of me. The word sorry lost all meaning for me that day because I pled & I pled & I pled but I was met with violence. But in the photos it doesn’t seem like that I know. It’s happy. We’re happy.

Even though I am over these experiences to the point where I feel foreign from them, no matter what I do, I can’t forget them.

I don’t like being drunk on the most important moments of my life, because I think it’s a thing coward people do. People who wanna experience life second-handedly and people who are utter cowards. On the contrary, this is almost a nightmare to me: To be a spectator of your own life. I wanna be sober on the days that I win and even the days that I lose but still I can’t pinpoint the reason as to why the people that get wasted do. Maybe it’s because there are an onslaught of responsibilities on their head and they just wanna do away with them, for once? but that doesn’t justify it right. I think it’s because they are tired of performing, for the audience, for the people that actually hold no real meaning in their life.

So if there had to be a drug in your own mind that makes you numb to the surrounds, then I have to admit I was on it too. For the last two years. It was only performance. and celebration. sometimes. but I walked out of that hell, gladly.

Two years later, yesterday I went to my high school, where I spent the most forgetful two years of my life and as soon as I stepped into that building, my first instinct was to walk out. I could see children playing outside in forty degrees but I was the one who felt nauseated.. I convinced myself it was a small paperwork and I’d get done with it in an hour or so. So I drank my feelings and waited. On the contrary, I kept thinking this is the last time I have to come here.

Now even though I can see the photos getting backed up in front of my eyes, my real memories outweigh the curated ones. I smile in my graduation photo, and to be honest maybe I was happy too. but you see, I really don’t remember it because I was high on the drug of performing. for me. for everyone. & the memories are more bitter than sweet.

To think of it, I do see my home in the city that I live in, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel suffocated here too. This city has seen all of my firsts. My first friendships (my bestfriend is from here too), my first heartbreaks, first night out’s and first sneak out’s too. So I do love this city. And I did fell at peace here. Not everyday, but I think that’s why I leave. And it lets me. “It loves me enough to let me go” I whisper to myself as the backup is ninety nine percent done.

And that takes me to the question I asked in the beginning - “Was I happy enough?

I think yes. Even in fragments, Even in parts, I was happy. And isn’t that all that matters? I’m not a philosopher, but as much as I’ve tasted this thing called life, it is a balance of bitter & sweet. of good & bad. of hope & despair. of love & loss. of remembering & forgetting and lastly, of good memories & bad memories. It’s just that we have to know when to dwell on the memories that exist outside of the frame and when to reminisce the ones inside it.

There is a ghazal that I love that sums all of it up:

“sirf shabnam hi shaan-e-gullistan nahi, shola-o-gul ka bhi daur chalta rahe;

ashq bhi chasme-e-purnam se behte rahein aur dil se dhuaan bhi nikalata rahe”

(“may this garden not only know the quiet of dew, but also the season of flames and flowers; may tears continue to flow from tearful eyes, and may the heart still have it’s share of smoke”)

Whenever i try to cut my hair an electric jolt hypnotizes my fingers and either i cut my hair too short, or cut somewhat that make no actual change to my appearance. I try every trick known to mankind, or at least to beauty vloggers on the internet, but all in vain.

This time i had to cut them because split ends had made home onto every lock of mine, and so i did the safest thing i could - booked the most lavish salon i could find in my neighbourhood and hoped for the best because it was a crucial gamble. I sat in the hotseat and gave my half an hour to the bet.

And next, as my subconscious already knew after fifteen minutes into the hotseat, I lost the bet. yes, I took advice from the most inexperienced trader of all time (the hairdresser) and yes I had gotten bangs. Bangs. On curly hair. You can of course imagine what happens next. I cried for like an hour after reaching home because all I could feel was the weight of all the decisions I’ve ever taken in my eighteen years of living.

Cut to yesterday, when I was looking at a photo from like five summers back. I had a bob cut in the pic. Then I looked at my now hair. Back and forth, back and forth comparing both. Who was I even kidding? My hair had grew. Of course they would. I had not. I had remained the once naive girl I was that used to sob heavily when her father cut her hair at five and not changed a bit in thirteen years. Hit me like a truck, I realised this limiting belief had gotten the best of me. And I know why too. I was so scared of looking anyway less than myself all these years that I had befriended permeance. I had made home in it and it had swallowed me whole.

A firm believer of ‘to grow is to change’ had found comfort in remaining the freaking same. And I am not talking about my hair even anymore. Oftentimes than not we find our self getting attached to silhouettes of ourselves that fetch us the most compliments or are conventionally ‘less riskier’. In my case, I had made a part of me my whole identity. My identity isn’t my short hair or long hair or shabby hair or pixie hair. It is me. and I am abundant. I can shatter, I can heal, I can drown five feet deep, and still build myself from the remnants.

I had made the mistake of mind mapping the coordinates of me so sharply in my head that I was now afraid of redrawing them again.

Think of it like this: the neighbourhood tree that you bypass everyday looks different every season. Be it fall, or winter or spring. You see the leaves wither away, you see it all bald at once even, but when the rays come fully, you see it exploding with countless ripening fruits and flowers too. The tree is you. The only difference is that it doesn’t complain. It channels through water and glucose even when it bears no fruit. In a way, the tree has figured out the answer to the complexities of life isn’t fear, its perserverance. Even through storms, even through drizzle.

I would now like to introduce y’all to an analogy that you have already have the taste of, but I’ll bend it to suit my own narrative - Plato’s prisoners. (just to be clear, I am not talking about the different realities in this one, just the sheer perspective that I share.) We all know why they kept thinking of mere shadows to be the reality of the universe - it was because all they could see was it. The shadows. Not the light. Not the figures that produced their shadows. And us, as humans become so occupied with the mundane everyday form of us that we fall in love with the outline of us. (in this case, the shadows.) There is so much more to be, but we still keep grinding our empty souls into believing we are what we are. But trust me, look to the other side. be anything u wish. Just be.

Also while I talk about all this I can’t leave out the orbit of familiarity. I get attached to books, movies, versions of me, and of course, hair. but i will rearrange the room. I will put my clothes in the cupboard and I will make space for my night lamp on my work desk, where I doze off to sleep. I will shake out the doormat and I will reshuffle my favorite makeup pieces. I will do anything to keep myself awake to the idea of change. and I will move the sofa to the side, and make space for me to dance in the light of it.

thankyou for reading, ‘twas a super quick piece :)

Five year old me easily forgot words and their meanings, or what miss Sarita used to teach me in school through making silly sounds with her nose. But I can never forget the one place where I truly belonged, my maruti 800. Our maruti 800. That beautiful vehicle is a living (or dead) testament of how a child can get attached to even the most peculiar things that quietly sit through the whole of their tender years. And this is more than just a vehicle for me, for me it is a whole scrapbook of my eccentric and beautiful childhood. Even now, when I catch a glimpse of this ancient beauty on Indian roads, I cannot help but smile to myself. All magical ways of me come back to me.

Every month, me & my father used to embark on a journey to pick my mom up from her place of work (she used to live 3.5 hours away from us) and drive back to our hometown. And by the end of those 3.5 hours I would always greet mom half-sleeeping by the window. She used to step inside the car, with her the honeyed smell of mogras she used to put in her hair. This would mix with the notes of evening breeze and chai, and would create an enchanting scent that would linger faintly inside the car. After an hour of talking here & there, and fighting sleep we would stop at the nearest dhaba to get some refreshments, which would include my fav chips of all time- oyes, and a sweet maaza pet bottle. While we would be out savouring these, rain would often come unannounced and mamma would cover me with her pallu, walking me to the car.

Soon after, we used to drive again and I used to get excited for my fav game- tracing down racing raindrops on my window. The rain would end, and would be followed by a colorful rainbow ( always opposite to where the sun had shone) and I used to play my second fav game. Spot the rainbow. My mum would feed me aloo ke paranthe while I used to wait for the wheat fields outside to end.

When we used to travel in hotter days, and there would be no rain, my mom used to pack sattu ka juice with her and I longed for it. In summers, the car would smell of hot leather and lime car freshener. Both of my favourite smells, till this date.

One such fine summer day, all three of us developed an inside joke that refuses to grow old, even now. Even my lil brother has been let in on this weird story. so… A truck, out of nowhere, came in front of our car.

Papa slammed as hardly as he could on the brakes.

Both of them instinctively turned around to check if i was okay,

But I was gone.

Not one sign of Aashna.

Not asleep. Not hiding.

Just gone.

For a brief moment, my parents were genuinely tensed as to where their (only) daughter went?!!

Then, almost in a scared little cat voice, I laid out a little ‘mumma…papa…im here ....”

With the sudden push, i was thrown down in the little gap between the front seat and back seat….

That day, mamma papa laughed at this for an hour (atleast) and i just sat there, laughing quietly toooo :P

By four months of this to & fro regular ritual, i had memorised all twists and turns of the highway, every shop my father used to stop by to get us chips, cold drinks and every kumar sanu song.

Sometimes, we used to park our car at the truck lay-by and do a little photoshoot with our keypad phones, the photos of which still take up space in my ferrero rocher box, and my heart, and i can’t complain.

After the photoshoot, we would get tired and my father used to put in his ‘evergreen old songs’ cd in the car stereo and we would lay back and enjoy the popular songs such as emraan hashmi songs (lol), kishhore da, mohammad rafi, kumar sanu and so many more…

Even now, whenever I hear the starting electric chords of tu hi haqeeqat, I get transported back to 2010. All I can picture is electric poles passing by one by one, and the loud noise of wind after opening my window.

Papa would start slightly tapping the steering wheel as ‘tu meri zindagi hai’ by kumar sanu would start playing, and as it would progress as he would start singing along ‘tu hi pyaar, tu hi chaahat, tu hi aashiqui hai’ in a deep but warm voice. A beautiful voice I can never forget.

The next song would be a particular love-revenge song ‘mere mehboob qayamat hogi’ by kishore da which literally translates to “my love, the doom is near” and mamma would always tease papa by “who broke your little heart jaanu?”. I would always accompany her laugh even if her jokes would not be particularly funny (sorry mumma)

After this one hell of a journey which tattooed Indian highways, toll plazas and bypassing farms in my brain, we would finally reach our hometown, only to savor yet another journey going back again. Between all of this, I never quite paid attention to the beautiful vehicle that ferried us between homes, seasons and memories. But I have nothing but gratitude for this non-living companion of ours.

Somewhere around 2013, we sold it away to make way for a bigger and better one, since my lil brother was born around that time, and with that the gentlest happiest years of my life , went away. The golden story of the five year old me was written inside those four doors. I quietly wished that to whosoever it goes to next, they find a magic inside those doors that were a formative almost golden experience for me. I have no shame in admitting that my first love was and always will be that silver four-wheeled sanctuary.

Goodbye lil companion, you were bigger than the whole sky, you were more than just a short time….

PART 1:

Author’s anecdote:

Four years ago, I sat cross-legged in the hot seat as I waited for my school counsellor to arrive. It was my very first therapy session, and I was excited as hell, and that was, until my school counsellor told me (she was my class teacher btw) that this is a strictly academic issues-related session and I could talk ‘only’ about low grades, subject difficulties etc etc. I had genuinely thought I could discuss all my smallest and biggest problems with this person in that chair, and she would magically sort all of it. At least to a certain measure. And that was the last time I ever went to “academic therapies” beautifully disguised under the umbrella of emotional and mental health. Now i agree, as a student academics are almost the biggest most brief part of life, but i was grievously hurt after this single interaction and the counsellors were so hell-bent on the fact that it had to be strictly ‘non-personal’. Automatically, I never ever went back to this three day “mental-health awareness” bullshit ever in my tormentous three years at this school again.

And that is the real experience from where this dissection of therapy starts.

why therapy culture is making one self-obsessed rather than self-aware

There is a fine line in between validating oneself and one’s actions and actually critically pondering into one’s trajectory of life and changing for the better. And this fine line often blurs when one steps into the clinic with the fear of being vulnerable enough to be labelled as ‘wrong”. The urge to make excuses for actions you shouldn’t be making for emerges out of nowhere. Suddenly, one doesn’t want to be real. They just want to make an image of themselves that is above everyone and every experience and wanna become the Nazi of life.( grandiose narcissistic approach). But therapy isn’t actually about creating endless positive self-narrations. If today or tomorrow one is taking the pain to explain their experiences to a person, they should also be willing to be vulnerable and actively change for the better. Because from every angle, making false self beliefs about oneself and validating every thought, every opinion, not judging it through a middle lens, defeats the entire point of therapy. In simple words: be brave enough to change. If not for anyone else, for yourself.

One of the point that I can obviously not skip while talking about change is the never ending wave of just wanting to accept yourself. We all are human, we make mistakes and sometimes all we want is understanding. Of oneself. Sometimes insight seems easier than transformation.

One has already been through a maniac rollercoaster episode, and they just want peace. Peace that can only come with understanding. But I would say neutrality is the key. Because sometimes people can make peace with conditions that they witness, just because they have been taught to do that since they were a child. To break free is hard. But narcissistic self-obsession cannot obviously help. It is like worse versus more worse.

So if one can afford therapy in this economy, it better should come out with visible change. If not visible to anyone else, at least yourself.

pop psych terminologies, romanticized

In the internet age, people oftentimes also ignore the issues they actually face by self-diagnosing themselves and taking endless quizzes only to come out as an ‘adhd kid’ when they don’t even get the full form correctly (rip buzzfeed). Now, don’t get me wrong, I am very supportive of this particular thing if one can find a sense of community through it. And attention seeking is not the most important thing on the planet right now. Seek attention for all you want, actually i want you to be open about yourself fully if that’s what helps, because people who are actually going through it all, know how hard it is. If it makes them feel at home, and connect with people all around the globe who face the same thing on one or the other hand, it is progressive. It is beautiful, it is mature, but engagement-baiting by adding these ‘tags’ in one’s instagram bio’s when you don’t even fall into that hard dilemma, is engagement-baiting and very oftenly, degrading the actual beings who suffer everyday. Psychological language should never be treated as fashionable. It is not owning the new prada bag (or the gucci one). It is not fighting for who’s diagnosed with the bigger disorder. It is real. And it affects people. So we can very conveniently toss the thought in the bin if it is to only grab attention on algorithms that applaud trashy noise.

People (who actually suffer) can use these labels, yes, but only if it fosters a sense of shared connection. Not if it replaces the person. We are fluid beings, not meant to be packaged into neatly done parcels, we are an amalgamation of every person we meet, of every thought we endure. We are a messy web of interactions and experiences. And at the end of the day, a very human thing would be sympathizing at the least with people who have faced trauma or continue to. Because one cant measure the amount of solidity it takes to get up and go about through every single day .One step I would personally like everyone to take , today itself, would be to stop throwing words like ‘depression’ and ‘trauma’ around casually. Stop glorifying the pain because the next person you now could be on the verge of abandoning themselves(& everything) because of it.

Yes. read the lyric. Now apart from the very obvious insult (chinki) there is another insult in the lyrics. The writer blatantly romanticizes a mental disorder openly. Like smoothly pressurising the audience to embrace being bipolar if it means you will be a certain someone’s dream girl. Like completely ignoring the fact that it is shameful. The shock, the nerve hitting, very rational. And i clearly know we are very far away from reforms inside the media systems, but this could be a start, perhaps? It is a ‘specially abled’, definitely NOT a ‘pagal’. The earlier people understand it, the merrier.

PART 2:

I, specifically for this article, went back in time and thought about my relationship with that one judgy teacher who loved to comment on my clothes. ‘your skirt should be beneath your knees, beta’ , and ‘nails should be trimmed’ to the point where your skin bleeds from cutting and obviously, the infamous ‘two side plaited hair.’ Now this holds no direct co-relation with the argument I’m about to present, but it, in a way, does. The impossible standards set to be achieved by Indian schools when it comes to studies/grooming and Indian families when it comes to decency. These unfold into massive trump issues because “log kya kahenge” becomes, well, more important than your own child’s mental health. My two inch shorter skirt can make all the boys sexualize me and my two marks less can make me a loser. ‘a khacchar’ (a mule in english), as they say, directly emphasizing you’re no use, of no worth.

This eventually transcends into the system treating us as losers. The NMHS (National mental health survey) of India stated that nearly 80-85% of people suffering mental disorders in India are not actively going through treatments. There is a lack of better resources, especially in the marginalized communities. Also one cannot excuse the fact that nearly seventy percent of the ratio are below the age of thirty five. Rising unemployment, socio-economic factors only add as catalysts into the ever-enlarging problem.

The IIT’s and AIIMS,( premiere govt. Engineering and medical sciences institutions of India) have had taken a toll on the emotional and mental well-being of students so much so, the suicides have not stopped. In IIT’s itself one hundred and sixty. Yes one hundred and sixty students have died in the last two decades. And we all know abut the paper-leaking scams that lead to suicides (in the preparation phase only) of AIIMS. That is NEET. The only thing that IIT Kharagpur’s director has said on this grievous issue is that they will change the fans in hostels of students to curb the means of self-destruction. “The lack of means to self-destruct can potentially bring back the joy of life”, in his words. The “campus mothers” initiative too, did not fail to put my shock level on the extreme high, because now the female staff, the wives of the male staff and every woman in the premiere engineering institution will counsel students who raise a request through the anonymous Ai- powered mental health app. Not only this enforces the fact that women are supposed to be natural caregivers and they are a safe space to vent to in comparison to men, but also they are untrained and underpaid for this kind of job. Instead of taking two steps back and pondering on the actual problems, which are the academic management, burnout normalization, social isolation, fear of failure, they are appointing teachers-cum-counsellors trained on crash courses. But who will tell them they have inculcated the practice to put productivity above emotional well-being themselves only. Address your own causes, otherwise mental health is just a vessel that will never fill up to the brim, because structural inadequacy keeps hollowing it out.

Okay moving on, the Tele-MANAS that the government claims is a free 24*7 mental health counselling helpline also has its pros and cons. From the information gathered through the internet and trying it with a friend, its very on & off. Sometimes calls aren’t picked up after 10/11 pm, sometimes the counselors are rude and what not. But I will particularly appreciate the effort, even if it is small, because there are always, always two sides of a coin:

I would like to close it up by mentioning that therapy cannot, and never will replace community, economic security, institutional accountability or human connection. And therapy can only help to survive broken systems to a level, when the systems themselves are hollowed.

Scene 1

The king of Bollywood, the chocolate boy, the heartthrob smiles promoting a pan masala ad with two stars equally as famous as him. Pan Masala, the substance that is responsible for over forty percent of oral cancer cases in India. And the justification behind the ad is just as familiar- : “if pan masala is so bad, then ban it. If smoking is bad, stop the production of cigarettes. If you think soft drinks are bad, don’t allow them to be made. You sell it, you allow it to exist. Don’t stop my revenue.” It is a convenient argument, almost elegant in the way it shifts all responsibility upwards, towards the state- anywhere but the self.

A man who can sell anything from perfumes to luxury watches- suddenly think that his influence has limits. Or perhaps, that it conveniently ends where accountability begins. But the public is not naïve, and with great power comes great responsibility. The idea that influence carries no weight if it is not legally enforced, is, in itself, vague.

Yes, Mr Akshay Kumar’s apology does come. But that too, after immense public backlash. That raises a definite question- even accountability here is inconsistent. Why talk about discipline, health or social responsibility when you are going to step aside the moment brands give you some crores?

Scene 2

Then came moments hard to ignore.

Not advertisements, not brand deals, but national issues. Issues hard to scroll past.

From the student led voices contending the CAA (citizenship amendment act, 2019) to farmers protesting against the new laws in borders of the country- on hungry bellies and makeshift camps, the voices were loud, poignant and inescapable. But because of fear of the government and afraid of being labelled as ‘anti-national’, most of the Indian celebrities stayed silent. Here, silent felt deliberate. Because this was a matter of grave and immediate attention. So many citizens of India were almost stripped of their profession, their identity and their livelihood bare. The engagement was selective- even though the issue demanded more than aesthetic concern.

But because of fear of the government and afraid of being labelled as ‘anti-national’, most of the Indian celebrities stayed silent- which quietly reveals another layer of our argument effectively- the loss that comes with speaking up, it costs you followers, it costs you brand deals, it costs you opposition from the government.

But this pattern isn’t difficult to ignore. The higher the issue, the quieter the voice. The more the stakes, the safer the response. And somewhere in that comfortability, influence does indeed lose its meaning.

Scene 3

Then, the recent issue which made me question our influencers. Who are we truly voting for? Why are we choosing our influencers based off of comfort, aesthetic and people who agree with issues they should have been taking a stand against?

The Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Amendment Bill, 2026 is a sharp blow to the community it claims to protect. It reminds us of how fragile these rights still are. This moment should’ve been non-negotiable. It was a direct hit at individual and community rights, at the independence, at the blood, sweat, tears of the people of the transgender community who fought days and nights to protect themselves. To feel seen. To feel respected. To finally feel like people, and not objects. But look at the contrast- the silence explains it all.

This silence was symbolic. A symbol of how these preachers of pride and lgbtq rights would build a following out of these aspects- but would back out when the time comes to protect it, to speak about it.

Yes, being ‘apolitical’ is one thing, but why use the emotions of hundreds of thousands of people for your own benefit? To keep your pockets full, and moral empty? Shouldn’t humanity and the principles of virtue be chosen every day, and not just when it benefits your own self? What is influence truly then, if not learning to speak even when it comes with risk, justifying one’s values not only in words, but in moments that demand something more than performance? Even when it is unpopular, at risk or inconvenient?

‘Influence’, as the word suggests, isn’t only to advertise products and sell carefully curated opinions. It is to stand up against the wrongs, even when it is unpopular or uncomfortable.

Perhaps, the only way through is to be radical about OUR choices, what we as an audience accept from these creators. Every like, repost, comment promotes them, so why not do it thoughtfully? Why not question the media we consume? Because when people who control the media are indifferent and in vain towards such crucial issues, doesn’t that gets inculcated into us, the normal people who consume the same media? Influence does not exist quietly- it is a group project that is sustained quietly and collectively by those in power.

In the end, influence is not just about who hold it- but also who choose to sustain it.

And the silence should quite literally force us all to think and reflect. Because after all, silence is rarely penalised- it is often rewarded. And as long as it continues to be, there is very little reason for it to change.

But as I grow older, I have lived my fair share of another genre of love which the world frankly calls- girlhood. and trust me, it is not exactly all about shopping, or lip glosses or café meets. Now if anyone ever puts me on a pedestal and asks me where have I felt the most loved in my entire life, it’d be female friendships.

metaphors, i have lived through:

When I am not with my girls, there is a vague fragile feeling that fills my chest, but when in am with them, it’s a beautiful feeling but my heart fears the end. My heart aches the fulfillness from the adrenaline rush even before it has ended. Honestly, I fear the end.

It is like a rollercoaster high, you feel so full of emotions when you're high, but in the back of your mind, you know you’re about to fall. Free-fall? That is the question. 

Its like my fav song playing in my earphones. I don’t want it to end. I never want it to end. The bpm of my heart finds its way in the songs pulse. It becomes one.

Its like the guitarist that learns to keep strucking the chords even after calloused bruises, I choose them over and over in a synchronised rhythm, without flinching. It is comfort, it gives me solace after years of practice.


They’re like the bridge of my life- between the chorus and the end, so damn unfamiliar yet still the same.

5.55 pm, 10^th grade

I want to give a new name to our friendship. How about jai and veeru? Or maybe serena and blair? But I hate them. They’re too filmy

I’ wanna still give the infamous naina speech in front of the whole world at your wedding. At my aditi’s wedding.

8 am, 11^th grade

I wish I never grow older.

I wanna be 16 forever screaming, panting, crying to Kishore da’s pal pal dil ke paas.

12 am ,11^th grade

He loves me, he loves me not. A dozen flowers on the floor, one in my hand

Phone beeps*

Do you think he actually loves me? I mean he gave me a personalized pendant, besides he never fails to compliment my eyes???

Aashna, I swear to god, I beg you, date me, become a lesbo, that guy looks like a chila hua andaa;p

8 pm, 12^th grade, farewell day

I never-ever wanna forget today in my wildest dreams. It feels so bittersweet. I would absolutely give anything to leave this school air, but I love my girlfriends. How can i?

6 pm, an auto ride

If we do have seven lives, I will go through every single one of them if I have my girls by my side.

I cry

I hope the auto wale bhaiya doesn’t notice that I cry

Blood runs warmer

Cheeks heat up

My heart could possibly explode from this much bittersweetness

today
Maybe soulmates weren’t even romantic to ever begin with, 
maybe my red strings were tied to the girls who would know me, support me
 before i even become myself
if that is the truth then I have already found not one, but countless better halves of mine
they are none other than the women who have showed me what real love looks like
how it shows up everyday- untimely, unreasonable, unspoken
but somehow always mine

if I ever find a man someday, I want him to respect the friendships that made me
because otherwise I would just be another loner in this draining city
I want him to love me with certainity
Not a fleeting intensity

Just like mohammad rafi said,
Jo khatam ho kisi jagah, ye aisa silsila nahi
Abhi na jao chodh kar, ke dil abhi bhara nahi
and just like niall horan said,
if the whole world was watching id still dance with you, drive highways and byways to be there with you
over and over the only truth
everything comes back to you
you-uu-uuu

I recently watched a reel on Instagram that made me realise about how nowadays Greek gods as boyfriends and picture perfect girlfriends have become a trend and how this bleeds into actual tangible connection. Dates don’t have to be thought-out and raw, but instead aesthetic enough to post and rant about it. Which, in my opinion defeats the whole point of dating and building human connection.

Everyone wants real relationships and love, but nobody actually wants to make a run for it. They’d just rather post the picture of a happy one and play pretend. Because obviously, they mistake the virtual reality scene. And while the uncountable theories of love like “if he wanted to he would”, and the “bouquet theory” all consume our brain, all we are left with is confusion. Utter confusion. Because at the end of the day, these theories only cancel out each other.

Now feeding us these so called “ideas of love” have taken dozens of years. It is absolutely not a ‘now’ thing. Little by little, reel by reel, the rich of the Instagram keep convincing us that if he doesn’t pay on the first date, he is not manly enough. (leave him) or, if u take her out swimming on the first date you’d actually know her beauty’s real or not. If a man doesn’t give you a hundred roses on valentines, he is not your man and obviously the internet’s favourite “if he wanted to he would”. Now don’t get me wrong, there is nothing wrong in believing certain ideas or following these people. But they try to preach the world that every relationship is the same, and dating is a test one needs to pass to be able to make a genuine connection. They measure every person on the same parameters. But guess what? Humans are complex creatures. Love does not follow when one follows certain standards or flawlessly meets benchmarks. It happens slowly. Actually, very slowly. It doesn’t show up magically when you’re busy searching up solutions for humans.

A lot of the times, Hollywood/Bollywood also come in the picture. Movies have to cast people with sharp features, glass skin, and overdone figures. They try to sell us the idea of hurried airport chases and grand, cinematic declaration of love, lavish surprises that mean little off-screen if you think about it. And young people grow up consuming this glamour as if it were a blueprint. They wait for their prince charming, someone who will sweep them of their feet. They mistake performance for partnership. They forget that in real life, we are all works in progress, not polished protagonists. And when they see the reality, it deeply hurts how unglamorous, repetitive and inconvenient love actually is.

Somewhere along the way, love has become a checklist. We don’t want love anymore- we want it to pass an aesthetic audit. Now our generation, ‘Gen-Z’ carries a carefully curated vision of what they want their future partner to be- emotionally intelligent, ambitious, kind, secure are some of the virtues. Yet, there’s a checkbox that’s quite unspoken, but undeniably it is there- they must look the part. Now even if a person ticks of all boxes, dressing sense and facecard often outweigh character. Now don’t get me wrong-physical attraction is natural, and very very important. But when we treat it as a prerequisite rather than an addition, we reduce love to branding. People are not amazon parcels. They don’t arrive flawlessly packaged and curated. They’re real, and messy and layered. And oftentimes than not, exactly looking their best. But that is humanity, not a flaw. Now through the means of redirecting our perception on love more as a feeling and not an aesthetic, I am not trying to convince you to never think about looks, but rather not reduce it to branding. U want emotional intelligence, but if it doesn’t photograph well, you are ought to leave them. Now if that isn’t a double standard I don’t know what is.

Perhaps, I believe the problem is not that we expect too much from love, but we’ve been taught to expect the wrong things through different forms of media. But guess what? Rewiring is always possible, even if it means to question what we’ve always been taught. Let’s all try to not to confuse surface-level impressions and performative romance with depth. Let’s not measure love by how loudly it performs, but rather by how consistently it shows up.

Because at the end of the day, love is not built in a moment meant to be admired, it is slowly built in moments meant to be lived.1