Recently, I’ve found myself thinking a lot about you. About us. Or should I say, just the possibility of us? Because we never existed, did we?

You’re everywhere.

It’s been three years, and since the day I met you, not a single day has passed where you haven’t crossed my mind.

I’m big on daydreaming and imagining fake scenarios—some about how I could’ve changed things in the past, saved that one friendship, been done with that one exam, and so much more. Dreams and scenarios changed, but something remained constant……

You.

You were there. You still are. You’re always there, everywhere, even when you aren’t .

You were there every time some cringe Kabir Singh edit came on my IG feed. You were there every time I would bake some bio-hazardous dessert and didn’t have anyone to laugh about it with. You were there in every exam hall. I remember it because I carried you along with me everywhere, all the time.

You. Your words. Our memories.

They’re embedded in every muscle of my heart, which still aches for you.

I carried you along with this heart.

Everywhere.

India is currently witnessing multiple protests throughout the nation.

Manipur: against the ongoing ethnic violence and national political disputes.

Uttarakhand: against a highway expansion project that requires felling over 4,000 trees.

Madhya Pradesh: against the Ken-betwa project, Chita Andolan.

Punjab: Farmers trade protest.

Chhattisgarh: Nakti demolition drive protest.

Karnataka: AI Township Land Aquistion Protest.

Gujarat: Farmers protest against Power Companies.

Goa: Karakpur-Sarwan Mega Project protest.

Maharashtra: Protests against Data Centers.

One thing remains common across many of these protests: Police brutality.

I have a simple question. The police force exists to protect the State—but what exactly is the State threatened by? Unarmed students holding copies of the Constitution? Farmers sitting peacefully at the borders? Citizens demanding that the government be held accountable?

If you’ve never concerned to educate yourself about the ongoing destruction of the democracy let me break down a few protests that have occurred in India in the last few years.

THE 2020-2021 FARMER PROTEST OF INDIA:

The 2020–2021 Indian Farmers’ Protest was one of the largest democratic movements in India’s history. Sparked by three controversial farm laws, farmers feared the reforms would weaken the Minimum Support Price (MSP) system, erode government-regulated markets, and leave small farmers vulnerable to corporate control. The farmers’ protest came at a devastating human cost. Farmer organisations reported that more than 700 protesters died during the year-long movement, while the Government of India stated that it did not maintain official records of protest-related deaths. The eventual repeal of the three farm laws in November 2021 raised a question that continues to resonate: Why did it take more than a year of protests, months of suffering, and hundreds of reported deaths before the government reversed its decision? Even today, the demand for a legal guarantee of MSP remains unresolved.

Manipur

In May 2023, ethnic violence erupted in Manipur between the Meitei and Kuki-Zo communities. More than 260 people lost their lives, over 60,000 were displaced, and countless homes, places of worship, and livelihoods were destroyed.

As the violence continued for months, the state government led by N. Biren Singh and the Central Government faced sustained criticism over their handling of the crisis. Prime Minister Narendra Modi did not visit Manipur during the height of the violence, a decision that drew widespread criticism from opposition leaders, civil society groups, and many citizens. His first public remarks came more than two months after the violence began, following nationwide outrage over a viral video showing two women being paraded naked.

During the Iran–Israel conflict, citizens were advised to avoid panic buying of LPG, conserve resources, and postpone non-essential travel to the region. Around the same period, the Union Budget allocated ₹483.54 crore towards ministers’ travel and related VVIP flight operations. For many citizens, the contrast was difficult to ignore.

The question many continued to ask was simple:

Why was there no urgency to stand beside the people of Manipur while the state was burning?

Delhi

Sonam wangchuck has been on a hunger strike for over 23 days was detained by the police in broad daylight, in the name of providing treatment the government has made sure he has no contact with cjp to rebel against the failing domocracy. The same pattern has repeated itself elsewhere. Students protesting the NEET paper leak, parents demanding accountability, farmers asking for legal guarantees, wrestlers seeking justice, and citizens exercising their constitutional right to protest have often been met with barricades, detentions, water cannons, tear gas, and lathi charges. Numerous injuries have been reported during these demonstrations. Tear gas, lathi charges, and water cannons were used against protesters demanding accountability. Riot-control agents such as CS gas, although prohibited as a method of warfare under international law, were fired at civilians protesting in the capital. Videos and eyewitness accounts showed armed police confronting largely unarmed students carrying copies of the Constitution, while numerous protesters reported head injuries, fractures, and other trauma. Human rights organisations have called for an independent investigation into allegations of excessive force. There were also allegations that women protesters were assaulted and mistreated during the crackdown, although Delhi Police have denied those allegations. I still believe, If the State deployed even a fraction of the force it uses to suppress peaceful protesters toward preventing violent crime, protecting women, and ensuring swift justice for victims of rape, perhaps India would be a safer place today. It is difficult to understand why unarmed students carrying copies of the Constitution are met with barricades, batons, and riot police, while countless victims of violent crime continue to wait for justice. The power of the State should be measured not by how effectively it silences dissent, but by how effectively it protects its people.

Many are saying that democracy died on the 20th July. No it didn’t.

It died when the trans bill was passed.

It died when men convicted of raping Bilkis Bano and murdering 14 members of her family were honoured with garlands and sweets.

It got wounded in 2019 at jamia milia.

It got wounded in 2020, when Umar Khalid and fellow activists were arrested by the police against false charges.

It has reached your doorstep now . Probably that’s why it finally concerns us.

The thing is pehle woh tumhe Hindu, Muslim mein todenge.

Phir Jaat,dalit Aur brahmin mein,

Phir ladki, ladka, trans mein

Aur jab tum acche khaase tukdo me tut jaoge woh tumse tumahara hak cheen lenge.

So if you’re privileged enough to not be concerned about the current situation of India, just know that you’re next, so maybe try raising your voice, call out that fascist,rightist friend of yours, you can’t really afford being “apolitical” right now.

The government has been labelling the protesters from quite a long time,

Farmers protest: Khalistani

Jantar mantra protest: cockroaches

Every Muslims: “terrorists”

Kerala: “terror land”

Gandhi,Nehru: “Traitors”

Ladakhis: “Chinese agents”

Anyone who questions the government: “Deshdrohi”.

People need to realise that this isn’t really about BJP vs Congress or Hindu vs Muslim.

BJP isn’t India. You don’t need a political party to “save” or “represent” your religion, but you surely need one to save your democracy.

If you still feel attacked when anyone around you questions the negligence of the government then it’s high time you get your facts right mate.

There’s so much rage and so much that I want to say but I’m gonna end this article here by quoting Che Guevara, “ if you cannot say wrong is wrong, you are at the lowest stage of slavery.”

My window is wide open. A few drops manage to reach my face—cold yet they carry your warmth at the same time. The wind slips through my room, making the marble floor colder than my body.

I lean toward the window, trying to catch your reflection in the raindrops, hoping they’ll borrow your reflections for just a second but my blood stains them before they get a chance.

Red trickles down the glass, swallowing the rain until I can’t tell which one belongs to the sky and which one belongs to me.

You’re still here.

Not in the room.

In my bones.

In every word you ever threw at me, each one sharper than the knife still resting beside my hand, my blood still smeared across the blade.

Then I hear the thunder.

Or was it your scream, Mother?

I’m still unable to tell the difference.

But wait…

Why am I thinking about you?

Have I finally left?

Or were you my last seven minutes?

You might have been.

Because suddenly I am 5 again

A yellow frock.

White socks already stained green from the grass.

Red bows tied into my little pigtails.

You’re laughing as you push my tiny tricycle across the lawn.

“You’re doing it,” you tell me.

For a moment, I believe you.

Then your hands disappear.

I fall.

My knees split open against the gravel.

You run to me before I can cry.

You scoop me into your arms.

You kiss my wound over and over, as though mothers possess a kind of magic that can bargain with pain.

Back then, your kisses fixed everything.

So where are you now, Mother?

The rain has almost washed all the blood away.

But I have another wound.

It’s much deeper this time.

It’s on my wrist.

I don’t think it’ll stop hurting until I sleep mama.

Will you sing for me one last time?

Will you please hold me mama, One last time?

The room feels so cold now.

I keep blinking, hoping you’ll be standing in the doorway, telling me it’s just another nightmare—that you’ll tuck the blanket beneath my feet, brush the hair away from my forehead, and kiss me goodnight like you used to.

I’m so tired, Mama.

Do you remember how I’d pretend to be asleep so you’d carry me to bed?

I was never sleeping.

I just liked being held.

I think…

I think I’d like that again.

If you come now, I won’t tell you about the blood.

I won’t tell you how scared I am.

I’ll just bury my face in your shoulder and listen to your heartbeat until mine forgets how to hurt.

Mama…

If I fall asleep before you get here,

promise me you’ll still kiss my forehead.

I don’t want the last thing I remember to be the rain.

I want it to be you.

I kneel to pray, but every time i say amen, your name arrives first, and i wonder if god is tired of hearing about you.

perhaps he is.

perhaps even heaven has grown weary of my devotion to a man who never deserved a fraction of it.

any sane person with an ounce of self-respect would’ve left. they would’ve gathered what remained of their dignity and walked away.

but i could not.

i stayed.

i waited.

i built a home inside tomorrow and convinced myself you would meet me there.

every silence became a bad day. every disappointment became something temporary. every broken promise became a misunderstanding i was willing to forgive.

i waited for the man i imagined to step out from behind the man you were.

for tenderness where there was absence.

for certainty where there was confusion.

for love where there were only crumbs.

and then came the hospital room.

i stood outside your door, listening to the machines speak in sharp mechanical breaths, each beep louder than the last, your mother’s cries breaking apart somewhere down the corridor.

and then everything stopped.

the machines.

the voices.

the hope i had dragged behind me for years.

all of it swallowed by a silence so complete it frightened me.

i still did not have the courage to walk in.

what if i was too late?

what if i wasn’t?

when i finally crossed the threshold, your hands were steady against the white sheets, your lips still, your eyes closed as though you had simply grown tired of carrying the weight of being alive.

i wanted to hold your hand.

i wanted to tell you that despite everything, despite the waiting, despite the hurt, despite the thousand reasons i should have left—

i stayed.

instead i stood there, frozen beneath fluorescent lights, mourning a future that had died long before you did.

and i wonder if i was your last seven minutes.

if somewhere between your final breath and the quiet that followed, you remembered us.

the beach at sunset.

our hands intertwined.

the waves rushing forward to erase our footprints.

i wonder if you remembered how i looked at you as though you hung the stars yourself.

or if your mind wandered elsewhere.

to regrets.

to unfinished apologies.

to words you thought there would always be time to say.

i hope i crossed your mind.

not because i need to be remembered.

but because i spent years carrying you inside every prayer, every dream, every version of my future.

and sometimes i lie awake wondering,

if in those final seven minutes,

you carried me too.

they said i dodged a bullet.

but when i press my hand against my chest, i still find the wound.

still find the empty space where all that waiting used to live.

still find your name buried between my ribs.

they said i survived you.

but survival has never felt so much like dying.

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TW: attempted murder, grooming, teen pregnancy, and me once again finding myself in situations that should’ve been reported to several authorities.

Whenever someone says this, people immediately go,

“Omg poor girl, she must be so lonely.”or “Damn, she probably doesn’t have friends because she’s toxic.”

And if you’re thinking either of those things rn, allow me to traumatise you real quick.

I’ve had some genuinely insane friendships. Like the kinda friendships that make you stare at a wall for five minutes and then randomly start laughing because WTF was that.

Friendship #1

I was around 13.

Met a girl at the playground. We bonded over very normal thirteen-year-old things like how bad the economy would be in ten years and how badly we wanted to leave India.

We became friends and since we lived in the same society, she invited me over one day.

The second I entered that house I knew something was off.

Wardrobes open. Doors broken. Clothes hanging out of the closet on the floor. Shoes all over the floor of the living room.The whole house looked like it had lost a fight.

Which was surprising because they were rich-rich.

Anyways, I started going there pretty often.Then one morning I went to wake her up so we could go play.

Her mother jumped on me and started strangling me.Yeah out of nowhere.

Now, personally, I think that’s a terrible way to greet guests.

I screamed cause I don’t think it’s a very common experience. My friend’s brother came running out, pulled her off me and started yelling at me to run.

I didn’t. Because my body apparently chose a secret third option: stand there and process absolutely nothing. Love my brain for doing this😍

Then she grabbed a knife.

THAT got me moving.

I ran, but not before getting a nice little cut on my chin as a souvenir.Turns out she tried attacking her own kids later that day too.

Now before you turn her brother into some tragic hero in your head because he pulled his mother off me that one time, let me stop you right there.

That man asked me out approximately 8–9 times.

I was 14.

He was 17.

And every single time I said no, he’d hit me with “Age gaps are normals.”

Sir, the age gap was the least concerning thing about this situation ig😃.

One day I was hanging out with my friends in an alley when he showed up with one of his friends. His friend pulled my friend aside while this absolute menace pushed me against a wall and blocked my way with his arm.To this day I don’t know what possessed me not to kick him in his nuts.

My friend eventually stopped talking to me because her mother’s psychiatrist told her to cooperate with her mother and her mother didn’t like me. Thank god.

Eventually I moved.

I still see that family sometimes.

And every single time my survival instincts clock in for work.

Friendship #2

Grade 8.

I had a friend who casually mentioned she had a boyfriend.

I asked what grade he was in.

She said he wasn’t in school.

“Oh. College?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

Apparently this man had already graduated university and was working in Dubai.

😍😍😍😍😍

Ma’am that is not a boyfriend.

That is somebody’s taxpayer.

Fast forward to Grade 9.

One morning she comes to school looking way too excited and starts telling me details about their relationship that I absolutely did not ask for.

Then she drops the sentence:

“We had sex.”

I swear to god I jumped out of my chair and fell on the floor and I wasn’t even exaggerating. You see in India I believe in 9th grade having boyfriends are common but teen pregnancy isn’t so it was quite a heart attack causing info for me.

The amount of information she proceeded to dump on me should qualify as psychological warfare. I love you guys imma not trauma dump yall dw😘.

Then Grade 10 arrived.

She drags me into the washroom, pulls out a pregnancy test hidden inside a pad and goes,

“Bushra, what do I do?”

Now, any normal person would’ve been shocked. Horrified. Panicking.

Me?

Not really.

By this point this girl had dropped so much deeply concerning lore on me that my reaction to almost everything she said had become:

“Yeah, that sucks .”

And if I’m being completely honest, considering the frequency of their, ahem, “LOVE-MAKING ACTIVITIES ” I kinda saw this one coming from a mile away.

She took the test.

Positive. Of course 😊.

Then she looked at me like I was supposed to have a five-step action plan ready.

Like girl, trust me unfortunately I don’t have any prior experience to help you☹️.

How about you go ask your loving caring gentleman.

Her boyfriend sent her instructions for medication to end it and at that point I was spiritually, emotionally and mentally done.

The day school ended I blocked her everywhere and walked away.

So What’s the Point?

At some stage I started wondering whether I attract the most unhinged people on earth or whether my judgement skills belong in a landfill.

Either way, I stopped making everyone my friend.

Now I have classmates. Benchmates. Teammates. People I like.

But friends?

Yeah, that title has become a premium membership.

And honestly?

I’ve never been happier.

Anyways these aren’t even the craziest stories.

Part 2 coming soon backed this ain’t even half of the great friendships I’ve had🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰.

Anyways I’m the most unaffected person so idc no more

And I don’t think I ever moved on from it

Content note: This piece discusses child marriage, postpartum trauma, and emotional distress.

I used to think stories like this only existed in headlines.
The kind you read, feel bad about, and move on from.

Then my best friend got married at 17.

She was engaged at 13.
Chosen at 10.

And suddenly, it wasn’t a story anymore.

I met her at a swim meet. Nothing dramatic. I had just messed up my race and was lying on the floor with a towel over my face, irritated and overstimulated. She walked up to me out of nowhere and asked, “What’s your name?”

We became friends just like that—sharing lanes, complaining about practice, getting kicked out of the pool for laughing too much. The kind of friendship that forms without effort.

One day, she came to me unusually happy.

“Can you notice something different?” she asked.

I looked at her carefully. “No?”

“I got my eyebrows done,” she said, smiling.

I froze. It might not seem like a big deal to most people, but where I grew up, I had always heard it was “haram.” And she came from a very religious family—this wasn’t something small.

So I asked, “What’s the occasion?”

And she said it casually, like it meant nothing—
“I’m engaged. Alhamdulillah.”

I laughed. I genuinely thought she was joking. What else do you do when your 13-year-old friend tells you she’s engaged?

For months, I refused to believe it. It felt like a prank that had gone too far.

Until I invited her for her birthday, and her mother told me she couldn’t come.

“Why, aunty?” I asked.

She said ,“Humare yahan ladkiyan engagement ke baad ghar se nahi nikalti.”

That was the moment it stopped being absurd and became real.

The bubbly girl who laughed at losing a state level match who wanted to do the wildest things was now trapped in her own home.

We lost contact after that. Not through a fight, just silence. Two years passed.

Then one day, she texted me.

“Hey Bushra, I know we haven’t been in touch, but here’s my bachelorette invite. I want you to come.”

I asked my mother if I could go. She said attending would mean indirectly supporting child marriage. She wasn’t wrong.

But I went anyway—with the best gift I could buy from two years of saved pocket money.

She was happy. Genuinely happy.
And somehow, that confused me more than anything else. I thought maybe she had a different childhood than me, maybe she didn’t see her mother and the women of her house work endlessly in the kitchen while the men sat in the couch laughing, or maybe the shimmer they dressed her in blinded her—kept her from seeing what came after: the wedding, the compromises, the quiet kind of slavery that followed.

She got married, moved to Dubai, and kept telling me she was happy. I chose to believe her—perhaps because the alternative was too difficult to accept.

I saw her once, about six months after her wedding.

And for a moment, I almost believed it.

A Porsche outside.
A Patek on her wrist.
A Kelly in her hand.
Shimmery Jimmy Choos on her feet.

Everything looked perfect—like the kind of life people dream of.

And she was smiling.

For a second, it almost convinced me.

But I knew her.

I knew the difference between her smiles.

She was too ambitious. No amount of glamour or luxury could replace the happiness she saw in that medical degree she never got to pursue.

She was incredibly intelligent. The kind of student who studies for three months and scores 95% in boards. Effortless, sharp, full of potential.

And then I began to notice something unsettling—she wasn’t the only one.

So many girls around me were getting married before 18. Their husbands were always older—five or six years at least. And within a year, almost all of them had children and for them this was “normal” I mean their jaw wouldn’t drop on the floor hearing about all of this. This made me realise that it’s normal to them because that’s what they’ve grown up seeing— Young girls getting married in the name of “honour”. They’ve learned the pattern too well.As if their lives were following a predetermined schedule.

There’s also this belief—rarely said out loud, but always present—that the less educated a girl is, the more “innocent” she remains.

As if ignorance preserves purity.
As if ambition is something to be feared.

And the worst part?

She didn’t come from an illiterate family where people think their daughters are a burden. She was from a wealthy home, with parents who seemed kind, loving, respectable.

The kind of parents that appear to love their children so much that they don’t wanna ever let them go.

She gave birth at the age of 17. When she had her first child, I saw the reposts.

Her sisters. Her parents.

“So happy for you.” “Finally a maasi”
“Crying happy tears.” “ Sending the biggest kiss to baby girl.”

And all I could message was—
“You’re very strong for your age.”
She laughed it off, said I was being dramatic.
But I didn’t smile. Not once. Not even when I heard her baby had been born.

Then she called me.

She was two weeks postpartum.

She was crying.

This was the first time I heard her cry.

I didn’t want to ask what was wrong.

I already knew.
But I still asked.

“I can’t do this,” she said. That’s all.

She had a second-degree tear. No one to take care of her.

Her husband came home, ate, slept—and repeated the cycle.

He wasn’t even happy. Their first child was a girl.

A few hours into that call, she went quiet. Then she said,

“Bushra…”

“I couldn’t become anything. But you can.”
“There are so many girls like me who can’t.”
“But you can—and you have to.”

That was the moment I broke down with her.

Not long after that, she disappeared again.

This time, not silence—blocks. Everywhere. Like literally everywhere .

Her husband must have seen our chats. Her mother blocked me too . Her brother too( this is point I’d like to use the laughing emoji)

To this day, I don’t know what went wrong.

But I do know this—

This idea of marrying daughters young to preserve their “purity,” even today, is deeply disturbing.

People hide it behind religion, culture, and “log kya kahenge.”

But at its core, it is control.

And it costs girls their entire lives.

It’s been six years!

And not a single day has gone by when I haven’t thought of her—of what she could have been.

Would she be studying medicine, like she always talked about?
Would she still be showing up to swim meets, arguing with the coach, laughing like nothing ever weighed her down?

I don’t know.

I don’t think I ever will.

All I can do is hope she’s okay—
and wish her the life she deserved.

This msg made me realise how privileged I am to get an education.

This was too traumatic but I really wanted to get this out of my head.

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I remember visiting her at a very young age, shy, this was the first time I met her. The hot wind blowing through her mud house bought a sense of peace along with it she called me popat (parrot) cause I was quite a chatty 5 year old .

She had a small room which overlooked the whole house and all of her valuables were kept in an almirah except that one chandi ka dabba….. unka paandan. चाँदी का वो डब्बा, जिसमें ऐसी दास्तानें बसी थीं जो किसी किताब के सफ़्हों पर भी कहाँ मिलती हैं।

(Chaandi ka woh dabba, jismein aisi daastaanen basi thīn jo kisi kitaab ke safhon par bhi kahaan milti hain.)

I had my eyes on it the second I saw it . At night she and the women of the house would sit in the courtyard on their khatiya’s, the evenings silent and dim, but the second she walked in, she brought brightness, light and love along with her, and with her, of course, came her Pandaan…. The second she opened it the scent of gulkhand filled my lungs with happiness it was Sweet and Floral -something I’ve never smelled even  in the perfume soaked lanes of Mumbai.

और हमारे आँगन की रात की रानी का पौधा—उसकी महक भी उस खुशबू में कुछ यूँ शामिल थी कि आज तक उसकी हल्की-सी महक मेरी रूह में नर्म-सी पुरानी यादें जगा देती है।

(Aur hamare aangan ki raat ki rani ka paudha—uski mehak bhi us khushboo mein kuch yun shaamil thi ki aaj tak uski halki-si mehak meri rooh mein narm-si purani yaadein jaga deti hai.)
(And the night-blooming jasmine in our courtyard- its fragrance was woven so deeply into that scent that even today its faint trace awakens soft old memories in my soul.)

I remember tugging at my mother’s dupatta in curiosity and asking why the women were still awake when the moon had long climbed the sky- wasn’t nighttime meant for sleeping? She smiled, as mothers do when a child has asked something older than herself, and said, “Isse rajjaga kehte hain.”

Rajjaga-— shaadiyon ki woh raaten jab auratein subah tak jaagti rehti thin, qisse, mashware aur hansi se raat ko zinda rakhti thin.

Rajjaga became one of the most soul-touching entries in the secret dictionary of my memory.

As the famous saying goes, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. I had heard that in Mumbai. But for the first time in my nani’s courtyard I heard another version, older and softer-“Jo rajjage ki raat mein guzarta hai, woh aangan ki mitti aur patton ke darmiyan pinhan rehta hai.”

What happened during rajjaga was a world unto itself. Every woman instinctively took up a task, as though the night had assigned each of them a role-
Someone folding a kaag( beetle leave cones), someone cutting the dali(the stem), someone applying chuna and kattha with practiced fingers. Someone laughing and trailing tobacco almost as if it gave her a strange sense of authority, like a secret inheritance from the men of the house.

I remember the bride with her head in her mother’s lap, her mother stroking her hair while the women around her offered all kinds of advice on marriage, duty, compromise. Advice wrapped in laughter, but carrying old wounds and then my nani said, “उ आदमी खातिर अपना मत बदलऽ, जे नमक के कमी त गिन ले, बाकिर तोहरा हाथ के घोलल मोहब्बत ना बूझे।”

Meaning:
(Don’t change yourself for a man who can count the lack of salt, but cannot understand the love mixed by your hands.)

I did not understand it then.I sat clueless, licking gulkhand off my fingers, wondering what they all meant.The dynamics of married life were still a foreign language to me.

But I remember that night.

I remember the women speaking in hushed rebellion about who they would have been , had their lives not been confined to the four walls of a house. If they had never married—would they have left their hometown to study poetry in Lucknow? or maybe Philosophy in Aligarh? Would they have been professors, traveler’s, women with names beyond someone’s wife?     Perhaps these are the questions they still seek answers to, knowing they will never know.

I remember that night as the night I first witnessed the rebellious nature of women-
how, when surrounded by others as hurt and as defenceless as themselves, they allowed truth to loosen from their tongues. How in the cover of night they spoke not as wives or daughters-in-law, but as women—full of hunger, wit, regret, and impossible dreams.

I learned how rebellion in women is often quiet.
It sounds like laughter over paan-stained lips.
It hides in advice given to a bride.
It slips into the ”what ifs” whispered after midnight.

And then, before dawn, I watched each of them gather themselves again-
calm themselves, fold their longings away, and mould back into the perfect wife, the perfect mother, the perfect daughter,
as though those were roles stitched onto skin.

And I remember wondering how every morning they let the cold calm of daylight carry away their freedom and dreams, only to reclaim them in fragments when night returned.

Until the next night.

Until the paandan opened again.

Until rebellion was passed around, leaf by leaf.

And I recall all of this because of that one

chandi ka dabba ….. my Nani’s Paandan.

Doctor

Money

Big house

Chanel bags lined up like proof

A husband

A child

A life that sounds correct

I say it and people nod

and that nod feels like oxygen

so I keep saying it

even when it burns

because if I don’t become that

then what was all this for

all the studying

all the pretending

all the trying to be… enough

enough to not be second

enough to not be compared

enough to not hear her name

right after mine

like a correction

I don’t even know when it stopped being my life

and started being a competition I didn’t sign up for

I just know I’m tired

tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix

tired in a way success won’t fix either

I think

and sometimes-

it slips

this other life

quiet

almost invisible

A place like Mussoorie

or Ooty

Cold air that doesn’t ask questions.

a small bakery.

burnt cookies.

no one caring.

no one watching.

just a house

No- not even a house

something smaller

something that doesn’t expect me to be impressive

a stream outside

flowers that grow without trying

unlike me

and I’m there

alone

and it should feel lonely

it should

but it doesn’t

it feels like… quiet after noise

like taking off something tight around your chest

and realizing

oh

this is how breathing is supposed to feel

and that scares me

because if that’s peace

then what am I doing here

why am I choosing a life

that makes me feel like I’m constantly late

constantly behind

constantly almost

I don’t want a husband

I don’t want children

I don’t want a life where I disappear into roles

and call it happiness

I just want to sit somewhere

knees pulled in

hands cold

music playing softly

and not feel like I’m failing at something

I want to exist

without proving it

but I won’t say this out loud

because this life-

this quiet, small, almost invisible life-

it doesn’t sound like success

it sounds like giving up

and I think

I’m more afraid of being seen as someone who gave up

than someone who was never happy

so I keep choosing the noise

and every night

a small part of me

goes somewhere colder

quieter

far away from all of this

and stays there

longer than it should

because that’s the only place

I don’t feel like I’m losing.

If you’ve come this far and you if liked this poem I owe you my biggest burnt cookie💗

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It’s not the compassion for the monkey that bothers me. It’s the selectiveness of it.

We live in a time when information is everywhere. Footage, reports, testimonies not hidden in dusty archives, but live-streamed into our palms. And yet, when it comes to places like Gaza, Sudan, Iraq, and other regions facing immense suffering, many retreat into a familiar refrain: “It’s complicated.”

Or worse “It’s all fake.”

Or the most convenient of all: “Influencers and journalists are just doing it for clout.”

At what point does “neutrality” become moral comfort?

Neutrality often presents itself as intellectual maturity as if refusing to take a position is proof of being above propaganda. But there is a difference between being informed and being indifferent. When credible journalists risk their lives to document bombings, when humanitarian organizations release data on famine and displacement, dismissing it all as “brainwashing” is not skepticism. It’s avoidance.

Empathy shouldn’t depend on convenience.

It shouldn’t depend on whether speaking up might make us unpopular, uncomfortable, or slightly inconvenienced. It shouldn’t collapse at the thought of boycotting a fast-food chain or skipping a favorite brand for the sake of solidarity. If our principles disappear the moment they cost us something small, were they ever principles?

There’s a pattern I’ve noticed. People are often vocal about causes that are universally safe animal welfare, environmental disasters, abstract “world peace.” But when an issue requires acknowledging power, policy, history, or geopolitical responsibility, silence grows louder.

Why?

Because taking a stand risks social friction.

Because algorithms reward aesthetics more than accountability.

Because being “neutral” keeps dinner tables peaceful.

Because it’s easier to repost a viral video than to read history.

And yet, history is exactly what we owe ourselves.

Conflicts in Gaza, Sudan, Iraq, and beyond are not trending topics. They are not fandom wars. They are not content. They are lived realities for millions. When people call them fake, exaggerated, or manufactured for engagement, it reveals less about the events and more about our unwillingness to confront discomfort.

Empathy is not supposed to be easy.

It demands that we look beyond our borders. It demands that we sit with complexity instead of dismissing it. It demands that we recognize humanity even when politics make it inconvenient.

Of course, not everyone who is silent is malicious. Some are overwhelmed. Some genuinely don’t know where to begin. Some fear saying the wrong thing. And that’s human. But there’s a difference between learning quietly and denying loudly. Between uncertainty and apathy.

What troubles me most is the casual dismissal the way real suffering is waved away as propaganda, as if entire populations are collective actors in some grand performance for attention.

We have reduced moral responsibility to a branding choice.

To be “politically neutral” today often means wanting the comfort of peace without the responsibility of awareness. It means benefiting from global systems while refusing to examine them. It means consuming news as entertainment and disengaging when it becomes morally demanding.

If we can mobilize our outrage for a single animal and we should, because cruelty anywhere matters then we are more than capable of extending that same compassion to children under rubble, families in famine, and communities torn apart by war.

The problem is not ignorance anymore. It is selective engagement.

It is easier to say, “Don’t bring politics into everything.”

But when politics decides who eats, who survives, and who is displaced, it is already in everything.

Reading a few books won’t solve global conflict. Posting won’t end war. Boycotting won’t single-handedly dismantle systems. But refusing to care guarantees nothing changes.

Empathy is not about perfection. It’s about willingness - willingness to learn, to question narratives, to support credible journalism, to acknowledge injustice even when it complicates our comfort.

We cannot keep calling reality “brainwashing” simply because it demands something from us.

If we believe in humanity, then humanity must extend beyond what is easy, trendy, or socially safe.

Otherwise, our compassion was never about justice.

It was about optics.

Let this post be end of your political neutrality.

CHOOSE A SIDE. THE RIGHT SIDE.

RAISE YOUR VOICE ABOUT THE INJUSTICE .

THIS IS THE REAL LIFE HUNGER GAMES AND YOUR OPINION AND SOLIDARITY MATTERS.

REMEMBER ALL THE LIVES LOST,ALL THE DREAM SHATTERED, ALL THE HOPES KILLED AND YES RAISE YOUR FUCKING VOICE ABOUT THIS MATTER.

Anne Boleyn was a rebel. She demanded the king divorce his first wife and marry her, for she would never be a mere mistress and should be the next queen. There was no one like her in the court of England.

So where did it all begin? Initially, Anne was sent to the Margaret court of Austria and eventually to the French court as a companion to Henry’s sister. Anne was playing one of the lead roles, ‘Perseverance,’ in a court masque at Thomas Wolsey’s Whitehall Palace. Anne wasn’t short of admirers—the dauphins, poets, the earls, and many more. But never did she allow anyone to cross the boundaries of flirtatious “courtly love.”

The king’s interest in Anne eventually became apparent. Henry VIII’s long marriage to Katherine of Aragon had produced only one surviving child, Princess Mary. Henry was becoming increasingly desperate for a legitimate son and heir to secure the future of the Tudor dynasty.

Either driven by her own virtue or ambition, or by her scheming relatives, and aware of the King’s dynastic dilemma, Anne refused to become a royal mistress and held out for the possibility of marriage. One, awkwardly and explicitly, declared that the King’s heart belonged to Anne alone, and that he hoped his body would soon also. It was signed with a loveheart around Anne’s initials. Anne’s responses do not survive. In that period, all he needed was a yes from the Vatican to divorce Katherine. If Katherine of Aragon had meekly accepted her fate, then English history may well have turned out differently. But Katherine was a proud and pious queen who believed that her marriage to Henry VIII was a sacred institution. The King began looking for a political and legal solution, petitioning Pope Clement VII and claiming that his marriage had never been legitimate because he had sinned in taking his brother’s widow, which some scholars believed to be prohibited by the Bible.

In May 1533, Anne was escorted by river to the Tower of London, where she prepared for her coronation in the royal apartments. She then travelled to Westminster in a triumphant procession. Anne was crowned Queen in Westminster Abbey on 1 June 1533, when she was six months pregnant. Henry and Anne’s first child, Elizabeth (the future Elizabeth I), was born on 7 September 1533. The following year, Henry broke with the Roman Catholic Church, setting himself up as the Supreme Head of what would become the Church of England. This created shockwaves, causing religious and political unrest in Britain for the next 200 years.However, not all good things last—especially not in the French court led by a vicious king like Henry, at least. After the birth of Princess Elizabeth, Anne and Henry had no more children. Miscarriages in 1534 and 1536 may have led Henry, always spiritually superstitious, to question whether he had made the right choice in marrying Anne.

Henry and Anne’s relationship, built on passion and expectation, seems to have become more tempestuous, and Henry again began to look outside his marriage for solutions. Anne possibly never would’ve let Henry marry another woman in her presence, and Henry perhaps knew this too well and knew exactly what he needed to do to marry again to someone who could bear his heir—her execution.

But what did he have against her to condemn her to death? Nothing. But wait, am I not the king? Can I not, like an absolute bastard, accuse my wife of adultery and murder her? Oh wait, yes, I can, probably thought the king. In 1536, Cromwell made a decisive move against Anne. Accusations of adultery and even of plotting against the King’s life were levelled against the Queen, her brother, and a small group of courtiers.

This is the day in 1536 that Anne had been impatiently waiting for. After everything that had happened to her in such a brief span of time, it is safe to say that she was worn out and ready to depart the world, as she made clear during her last days in the Tower. It is thought that, sometime during Anne’s imprisonment, she wrote a poem about her fate and how she welcomed and embraced death. It is titled, “Oh Death, rock me asleep.” Here is a stanza from that poem:

“O Death, rock me asleep,

Bring me to quiet rest,

Let pass my weary guiltless ghost.

Out of my careful breast.

Toll on, thou passing bell;

Ring out my doleful knell;

Let thy sound my death tell.

Death doth draw nigh;

There is no remedy.”

Anne probably had trouble sleeping the night before and constantly prayed and thought of her beloved daughter Elizabeth. However, the night wasn’t long, and the day of her execution arrived. When Kingston came to her rooms to tell her to make ready, she was already waiting for him. She looked composed, hid her tears, and delivered her final speech to the public:

“Good Christian people, I am come hither to die, according to law, for by the law I am judged to die, and therefore I will speak nothing against it. I come here only to die, and thus to yield myself humbly to the will of the King, my lord. And if, in my life, I did ever offend the King’s Grace, surely with my death I do now atone. I come hither to accuse no man, nor to speak anything of that whereof I am accused, as I know full well that aught I say in my defence doth not appertain to you. I pray and beseech you all, good friends, to pray for the life of the King, my sovereign lord and yours, who is one of the best princes on the face of the earth, who has always treated me so well that better could not be, wherefore I submit to death with good will, humbly asking pardon of all the world. If any person will meddle with my cause, I require them to judge the best. Thus I take my leave of the world, and of you, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me.”

Her ladies helped her prepare for death, and she thanked them each for their service, asking them to pray for her soul. She forgave the headsman for his services and handed him the sack of coins that was his payment, which would also be handed out to the poor. Then she was asked to kneel and say her prayers.

She appeared dazed when she knelt on the straw. She faced the crowd and muttered several times, “O Christ, receive my spirit,” but she was human too—and above all, a mother who longed to see her daughter one last time. Eventually the hour came and her ladies, shedding many tears, knelt at the back of the scaffold and awaited their mistress’ end.

As she knelt and awaited the blow, she continued saying her quiet prayers until the headsman unsheathed his sword. The Flemish steel met the Queen’s neck, and immediately, her head fell into the straw. Although it was customary for the headsman to hold up the victim’s head and yell “So perish all the King’s enemies!”, no such record exists for Anne’s execution.( did everyone know how big of a bitch Henry the VIII was?)

She forgave her executioner, thanked her ladies, and faced the scaffold like the queen she had always been. The sword fell, and with it, her head. But make no mistake—Anne Boleyn was never defeated. She had lived on her own terms, demanded her place in history, and left behind a daughter who would rule England with fire and brilliance.

“The parallel universe ” is the only one I believe in,

A universe where we didn’t ruin each other.

I imagine it at night-

A world where selfishness

 and ego didn’t consume us,

Where pride wasn’t wasn’t our language,

And leaving wasn’t our answer.

I see us in a field of tulips,

Sunlight in our hair,

Barefoot on forgiving soil. 

Your hand in mine,

like a vow we never break.

I let myself believe in that universe 

Because this one failed us. 

Because here we walked away,

With caution in our smiles,

With memory of the versions of us, 

That hurt each other.

So I close my eyes and live in the moment -

Among tulip fields and second chances,

Where you chose me,

And I chose you,

And we chose us.

Can people, for once, stop acting so damn nonchalant?

Stop saying “it’s not that deep.” IT IS THAT DEEP! you mentally constipated goose. You’re literally rotting from the inside out pretending not to care.

I care.

I care about who leaves. I care about why they leave and yes I will overthink, because reflection isn’t a disease — it’s literally what keeps us human, you know the species which is meant to feel emotions? Thinking is not cringe. Caring is not cringe. This generation desperately needs to stop calling numbness “healing.”

God, bring back yearning. Bring back writing stupid letters, and waiting for replies that may never come, and crying to songs at 1 AM. Bring back wanting.

But no, now if you miss someone, you’re “attached.” If you write a poem, you’re “obsessed.” If you ask for consistency, you’re “too much.” Everyone wants low effort, high reward, zero accountability. The holy trinity. High time we bring back commitment and honesty yall😔🙏🏻

I swear, this generation thinks love is some kind of side quest. We’ve got “situationships,” “benching,” “almosts,” and other new ships that don’t even float. What happened to actual relationships — where both people are actually in love and admit it instead of saying “haha yeah we’re chill”?

I just want to yearn in yearn in peace!!

I want to write to my beloved and not be told I’m being dramatic. I want him to get me lilies every Tuesday because he remembers that I like lilies. I want to spend weekends eating sandwiches by some random river, sharing earphones, laughing about the time we liked each other but pretended not to because God forbid anyone actually feels something.

And no — I’m not some 50-year-old divorced, abandoned grandma reminiscing about lost love. I’m 18!!! But I know how true love feels. I know what it’s supposed to be. And I’m not gonna act like I don’t just because everyone else has commitment issues and trust trauma they disguise as “boundaries.”(I AM IN FACT VERY MUCH DRIVEN BY HORMONES😃🙏🏻)

I want real things. Messy, honest, alive things.

I want someone who doesn’t say “you’re too intense” when I tell them they matter. Someone who’s not scared of silence or eye contact or long texts. Someone who says “I miss you” without trying to make it sound casual or trying to not make it sound cringe.

But no, everyone wants to be mysterious now. Everyone’s “unavailable.” Everyone’s pretending not to care because caring makes you lose the game😍.

Maybe that’s why I stay in bed with my curtains shut , because outside it’s just people running from feelings, convincing themselves it’s peace when it’s just emotional anemia.

So yeah, it is that deep.

And if caring too much makes me cringe, then fine — I’ll be cringe. I’ll be the last romantic standing in a crowd of people too scared to feel.

Sometimes I think that day in October never existed, or that I imagined it to survive the emptiness. I replay it, again and again, if my voice had been softer, if my words had been kinder, if I had learned to strangle my emotions before they spilled. Maybe then we would have survived. But we didn’t. We were never fine.

I felt worthless—small enough to disappear between your silences. In your world, there was always someone prettier, someone smarter, someone louder, someone easier to love. I learned the pattern. I memorized it. I folded myself smaller, softer, quieter so you wouldn’t leave. At seventeen I endured every possible sense of humiliation and disrespect. What hurts me is that you found pride in that. You pushed me to the edges. You left me open and trembling. And still, I crawled back because I had no worth, or because I loved you, or because I was too young to understand the difference. I gave you my love without pride, without ego. And you fed it to your pride until nothing of me was left.

I noticed how your time multiplied for everyone else while it withered for me. Our deep talks thinned to noise. The distance grew, invisible but suffocating, until it became the air between us. Even when I begged you to stay, you didn’t move. You didn’t try. You didn’t even reach. You never apologized. You never stopped me.

Was I really that worthless? Did my absence weigh nothing in your chest? Did those promises you whispered at night never burn you in the dark? Don’t they ever haunt you at all? You broke a sweet, naïve girl madly in love who thought trust meant safety. You broke her slowly until she couldn’t be broken further, then left her carrying your guilt and wearing your villainy. I blamed myself until my head was crowded with impossible scenarios, until my mind replayed every moment like a punishment. And then, finally, the realization: you never loved me. You liked me. You liked the rush of adrenaline you got .But not love. Never love.

And now, as I learn to stand without you, I do not want your glances backwards. I do not want your peace offerings. I do not want apologies stripped of meaning. I do not want you. I want the quiet. I want the night to end. I want you to fail—not because failure will heal me, but because it will mirror back the harm you left inside me.

So don’t come back. Don’t apologize. Stay gone.

I love too deeply.

I let love consume me. I let it alter my personality. I let it ruin me.

Love or attachment I don’t know. Was it the absence of maternal love or the complete absence of my lover’s presence? I have come to find love subjective, a thing that never persists but departs—slowly, suddenly, without warning. And after it leaves comes the absence, an absence that only exists as a consequence of the other. It is always the other who leaves, and I who stay.

I—who love.

I—who feel.

I—who show up.

It is always I, and the absence of you, in the picture.

Sometimes I endure this absence easily. I obey the advice of others: let go, don’t feel so deeply. And for a while, I manage. But then comes midnight, the sky full of stars—the same stars I once saw in your eyes (when you explained your hatred for me, a hatred I foolishly ignored , how couldn’t I your words always sounded too melodious every curse you hurled at me felt like a confession—confession of love.)

And so, at night, I forget the lessons the world has tried to teach me. I slip back into my miserable, needy state where I believe I need you.

…But then I remember the disrespect—the words of hatred, beautifully wrapped in silence. The way they lingered, unspoken yet heavy, pressing against my chest like a confession I never asked for. Every pause, every look, every carefully measured absence of speech was a verdict against me, a love folded into cruelty so artfully I almost believed it was affection. And I helpless, foolish, desperate took it all in, let it seep into my bones, let it remind me, in every quiet moment, of what I had always been: the one who stayed, the one who felt, the one left behind.

Absence persists.

I must endure it.

It fascinated me how so many who, by society’s measure, lived “perfect” lives were quietly fighting wars no one else could name. Wars so private, so intricate, a common mind might never imagine them. Poets, especially. Perhaps they aren’t cursed by the world but by their own nature, to feel at obscene depths, to peel their own skin for meaning. They reach into the pit of themselves and drag up something terrible and beautiful, until they can’t stand the weight of their own vision.

It fascinated me how they chose to leave the world, each method haunting, singular, and almost signature. The way Van Gogh pulled the trigger of the gun which he probably eyed for days and parted himself in a field of sunflowers , the flowers of light  bearing witness to his final darkness. Sylvia Plath, lowering her head into an oven, drawing in carbon monoxide as though inhaling a final poem, letting it curl through her lungs—slow, deliberate, almost ritualistic. There’s something obscene and holy about it, like watching someone set themselves on fire and calling it a prayer. I think about her often. Those last moments. Did she tremble? Did she taste the metal of regret, even for an instant? Did she imagine pulling her head back out, opening a window, and undoing it all? Or did she, in that instant, feel the cold clarity of inevitability? We will never know.