I know your scent. I know it cares. My mate of honour.

Save my skin and veins, but spare my eyes so they see and bleed. Love them less, oh dear.

The voices they speak, my eyes, oh my eyes.

The laughter they echo, my eyes, my darling sisters.

My tongue twisted inside my ruby mouth, teeth torn out.

My ears, locked inside the shelf, memorized the lullaby Amma sang.

My legs kept safe in your chest of drawers.

My arms, ah, they must be attached to the knife.

I blink and face the grey.

My eyes, the true companions, must be freed.

Oh they hear, they feel, they walk across miles, but, my dear, please let them see.

I have been trying different syllables to shape your name, often wondering how it would sound from my dry, chapped lips.

What is it like—sweet or slightly tart?

Do you know mine? I am a little offended—no, truly.

Which language do I learn to pronounce it? Perhaps I will find out from the sacred pages of my mind.

Does it resemble the cozy frost or the gentle sun?

It must be as enticing as spring. Oh, but you bear no offspring!

Should I lament that many painted lips have tasted your name before I even thought of it?

Oh, silly! Let me rather rejoice in the enigma of you.

Have you ever known who you are? What echoes in the forest of your mind when you dream of love?

Such curiosity embraces me! Was it bestowed by the same mighties of Pandora?

Dearest, I ache to learn the letter that begins you. The songs that carry it. The fruits that echo it.

What do your pals say? What about your foes?

How are you held—with affection or with ruin?

My, who am I,

if not a voice searching for its mate?

The ever-promiscuous red clings to your fingers, baring her fangs at me. I am sick with envy as I watch you strip the shyness from that morbid husk.

Your hands—silken and brazen, often wrapped around my throat—cradle the redness with such vigor, as if it seeps through your very soul. The sheer arrogance radiates through her feline smile as she languidly paints your lips.

Is it vehemence you crave? Or perhaps, she was simply worth the mess?

I bleed too. Why must you not cradle me so?

My attire, washed with scarlet flow—a puddle around my scorned feet. Why must you not cradle me so?

My eyes, tinged with the crimson covetousness you bestowed. Why must you not cradle me so?

My cheeks—the hollowed, ruby-stained flesh—you kissed. Why must you not cradle me so?

My throat bore the mark of garnet left by your mercy. Pray tell, where must I bleed more to please you?

I watch and watch and watch—the layers you undo; the gleam of messy, sanguine hue. It soaks the hand I seek.

I see her unflinching willingness to feed your greed. I do too. I wonder if it is only her flesh that entices you.

My love, she bleeds so beautifully for you. When will you allow me too?

When I think about some of my favourite shows or movies, one thing always stands out like a unicorn among goats. And no, it’s not the grand confessions, and the teary reunions, but the lived moments. The lingering glances. The almost-touch. The art of staring too long.

This year, we have seen romance claiming its rightful throne among its peers. We have seen it in recent releases as well as in fashion. The blasphemy of it all is how it is, in fact, the highest-selling genre, yet still often mocked—dismissed as unserious, indulgent, something to be outgrown. And even then, it continues to outsell, outwatch, and outlive its critics. I, for one, have always been fascinated with the ebbs and flows of romance and its sheer audacity to make me fall in love with humans made with ink and hidden dreams.

Romance comes with many of its suitors—passion, obsession, lust, companionship—but the one I think wins every time is yearning. Passion burns fast, obsession consumes, companionship settles. But yearning fuels. It stretches beyond time and seeps into your bones.

The portrayal of yearning in movies, or shows, hits me like a train wreck every single time. I have grown up surrounded by cliches and have always believed they are the seventh wonders of the world. Never because they are repetitive, but because when done right, they feel inevitable, as if they were always meant to happen that way. How riveting it was for a dainty-hearted young lady with muted rose glasses around her yet pristine eyes to witness the doom of love unfolding in front of the characters from her living room’s screen.

I have watched it all happen far too many times. Why, I am nothing but everything I have consumed through my eyes. One particular emotion has always stayed longer beside me, albeit my rough understanding of it. As I outgrew my favourite pink skirt with tiny glitters all over it, I began to realise that what once felt like fantasy had merrily taken root within me.

Yearning is a slow hunger that feeds on you from the inside, and somehow, all it produces is love. I have slept with longing quite a few times, entwined between my silk sheet. It happened involuntarily first. The second was a rush. From the third onwards, I no longer could tell who I was. An addict, perhaps.

You see, I like to believe I was born with a melancholic soul who died in her previous life resting atop her lover; thus, I am yet to close my eyes for sleep. For I am looking through clouds and smoke to get a whiff of him.

There’s a frenzy of posts on my Instagram showcasing yearning from the cultivation of their and mine, favourite movies and shows. Carefully edited clips, slowed glances, dialogues stripped of context but heavy with implication. With that, of course, came the unnecessary urge to perform it. Wear the badge of a ‘yearner’ in front of the world. As a result, this disease-like emotion became mainstream.

Every movie or show is too busy to unleash their very own Mr. Darcy. And in doing so, they are leaving the plot alone at the station. I love a good cliche, but can everything be cliche-fied?

When yearning becomes performance—something to be displayed rather than felt—it loses its ardent devastation.

Last summer, the internet was divided into two teams and was ready to scratch eyeballs. That summer might not return, but Belly and Conrad sure did. If it is not clear yet, then yes, I am talking about The Summer I Turned Pretty. And, yes indeed, I was team Conrad. I loved Conrad, more so the way he loved. But, was he only a yearner, as I often see the internet call him? Or was he simply grieving? Mourning something far deeper than love itself?

A big part of me will remember him as the son who mourned his mother and the love he lost and sought. Yes, he loved Belly, but to me, his advent of grief and gentle courage to seek therapy outshined everything. And perhaps, that is where the confusion lies—when grief begins to look like yearning, and yearning begins to look like love. From there began an uproar of love triangles, and a blueprint male lead who ‘yearns’. A formula, almost. One that is easy to replicate, easier to consume.

The romanticization of yearning as a concept is used to draw out mediocrity from every chest of one’s heart who questions it. It convinces us that intensity equals depth, that suffering equals sincerity. But, is it really necessary to portray oneself as a melancholic character from their favourite show? There is no stage, so why practice a shallow performance?

To yearn has never been a choice; it is a curse bestowed upon the laden.

Love could be sitting beside with a hand outstretched, and the greed of who isn’t will pull a whip on you. I dare not define it. The cursed will rejoice in that blood. Because perhaps, in some strange, haunting way, yearning makes us feel more alive than having ever could.

But, if each of us is yearning, then who is earning? Who is choosing what is present over what is absent? Why is there so much love lost than found?

You don’t need to be a yearner; be a lover instead.

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My eyes bleed with longing for a place I have never known. I fear that if the end is near, I won’t find peace. Doomsday will find me rotten and ready. I ache for a place I will never see. My heart thumps out of my chest, and my soul dreads freedom without seeing home.

Life. Death. But what’s in between? Tragic limbs, crooked smiles, and severe cries echo in my ears. I have never known life, but I have tasted death. It reeks of shattered dreams and vile settlement.

Heard war was back. It always does. It reminds me of life. I despise it—life and war. So similar. Both ignite a hollow sense of authority. Fools reckon they have a hold on war and life. You have more control over death, for it never bluffs. It will knock only once—if you are lucky, that is.

But life will persist. Why do we have to exist? Why can’t we live?

My home, wherever you are, I cry for you. Flesh and bones or bricks and stones, I cry for you. Has war dismantled your hopes and heart? I despise war. Truly, I do.

My home, I blow prayers your way. I like prayers. They reside in the layers of my skin. My heart is alive and well, and I curse anyone who says you are near. Home is you. Heart is heart. A mere thing. I could rip it from my chest for all I care.

For I, a prisoner of life and war, will yearn for you. Longing comes from the soul—so what need have I for a heart?

I am a child of life and war. My home, perhaps you are alright. May war fall in love with you. Then you will be spared. Love leaves, and thus spares. My home—may you despise me too.

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I went out on a lunch date with one of my girlfriends last Sunday. We were having the time of our lives (well…as much as one can when Monday is lurking around the corner). Outside the cafe sat an enormous willow tree, almost like a guardian. Naturally, we decided to take pictures under it. In the middle of it all, a man approached us, probably in his early twenties. He introduced himself with a polite smile and explained he was new to the city and that she had caught his eye while he was passing by. Now, my sweetheart of a friend grew a little shy, bless her, and she was struggling to refuse his advances as she already had a boyfriend. Taking that as my cue, I stepped in gently, smiled, and told him in no specifics that she is already committed. My friend shot me a grateful look in return.The man apologised briefly and with another of his polite smiles, retreated back. Nothing much happened after that, we booked our separate rides and went our merry way.

On the way back home, I unfortunately couldn’t stop noticing a pattern. This wasn’t the first time anything such happened. In fact, my mind began replaying how often it does. How people tend to approach us, while I’m out with my circle of friends. By us, I mean my friends.

Pity touched me first and soon insecurity took hold of my throat, choking me. Thoughts ate at my mind about how “unpleasant” I might be, how “ugly” and how I must not be “good enough” to be the one they seek. Don’t get me wrong, I love all my peers and they are dear to me. Yet, the sting of never being chosen burned my skin. And that is what it’s all about, being noticed, wanted, and seen. For a fact, I am more interested in my next dentist appointment than dating a man.

But then a thought hit me with a force so strong, it cemented a truth.

Why do I have to be “good“ and “enough“ to be seen?

Why must I be a template to prove my worth? What is there to prove? And pray tell me, who is measuring it? And with what? Does it weigh in grams or litres?

If you fit a certain preconceived standard, you will receive affection, you will receive care, you will rejoice in the happiness of being the one. I wonder what will happen if one day the “good” seeks the likes of freedom.

“You are enough”, “You are worth it” phrases like these are often used to bring comfort. But what if I’m not enough today? What if I simply want to be less and loved?

In a world full of colours, humans exist in shades of grey. So why is being average, flawed, or “less” unacceptable?

I refuse to chain myself with adjectives.

And maybe the problem isn’t just the world but me. Us. How many times have I judged my own worth on the basis of my Instagram likes? How many times have I compared myself to strangers on a screen? I wish I could give a number.

The world of social media is a vice and a virtue. Alas, as humans we often fall victim to our vices. I have grimaced at the ten likes staring back at me. But have I ever acknowledged the fact that if those ten people walked up to me and said something kind, what would it feel like? Have you?

I think we forget that our existence is meant to be messy, uncomfortable, and dare I say, empty. A day will come when we are all called back and we will leave behind all our worth.

Our worth is our work.

Our worth is who we choose to be.

Our worth is nothing but ashes.

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What Does It Mean to Be Hated?

I often ask myself, what hatred even is? Is it supposed to be a vile, ugly feeling that rots you from within or an escapism route to hide one’s shortcomings?

Hate is rarely objective. More often, it behaves like a mirror, reflecting not the person it targets, but the one who feels it.

Most of the times, hate does not appear in obvious forms. It hides inside socially acceptable language:

“She’s a little too opinionated.”
“You’ve changed.”
“She’s arrogant.”
“You’re a little too ambitious, don’t you think?”

People tend to resent what unsettles them and sometimes what they secretly wish they possessed.

And when it comes to women, this resentment has a long, complicated history.

The Unrequited Love of Hate Toward Women

Misogyny is not new. It is ancient enough to be woven into mythology itself.

Pandora, the first mortal woman, was created as an act of revenge. According to Greek mythology, Zeus, angered by Prometheus for giving fire to humanity, ordered the gods to craft a woman, the very first of her kind, and send her to Epimetheus, Prometheus’s brother, as a gift. She arrived carrying a sealed jar, warned never to open it and what later came to be known as Pandora’s box. Inside were all the evils of the world: sickness, death, pain, and suffering.

The story diverges from there. In some versions, she was portrayed as someone, who knowingly opened the box at the behest of the gods and released all the malice upon the world. In others, she was simply curious, driven by a trait given to her by the very gods who would later blame her.

Either way, the outcome remained the same. Pandora became a symbol of blame. A representation of woman as the origin of chaos and human suffering.

And from there began a long tradition of resenting women, often simply because it was convenient to do so. Pandora, like many women even today, was less a villain and more a victim.

Her so called “disobedience” has long been framed as the moment humanity fell from bliss into suffering. But what disobedience, really? She was handed a sealed jar, given curiosity by design, and placed inside a carefully constructed trap.

What saddens me is how little reality differs from myth. Women are still blamed, still resented, for one act above all: disobedience, for choosing autonomy.

Who, exactly, are women meant to obey? The society? The very one that waits like paparazzi for a single misstep, only to drag them through slander?

The idea of femininity, of the “good woman,” is far less subjective than society likes to pretend. She must be demure, soft, attentive. Add beauty into the mix, and you have the perfect, acceptable woman.

But these same traits are quickly recast as flaws when they stop serving control. Demure but not compliant. Soft but not silent. Attentive but to herself. Beautiful but aware of her own worth.

And just like that, she is no longer useful to patriarchy. Autonomy is a basic right, and still, women are resented for claiming it.

A “good woman” is also closely tied to likeability. And no, likeability is not the same as respect. History shows that women have had to fight, relentlessly, for the most basic recognition of their worth, and even now, that struggle is not entirely behind us.

Agreeable, timid, and mouldable women are often considered likeable within a patriarchal framework. Respected, however, is another matter. Even standing in the 21st century, respect for women often feels conditional.

So the labels change.

She becomes selfish. Difficult. Self-centred. Too much.

The Vice of What Is Expected

For centuries, women were expected to perform a perfect script.

A daughter. A wife. A mother.

Each role came with heavy expectations, quietly enforced as social law. An unwritten rule. A norm so deeply embedded that anything beyond it was condemned.

What, after all, was allowed to exist beyond these roles for a woman?

Before the 19th century, a woman demanding autonomy was seen as rebellious and a social evil. She had no right to education, no right to vote, and no control over her own body. Married women, in particular, were denied legal identity, prohibited from owning or inheriting property, controlling finances, or entering contracts and lawsuits in their own name.

Yes, the law has changed. Women now have the right to education, to vote, and to own property.

But the expectations, has it truly changed? Have the norms?

A woman who stands up for herself, who chooses her own path, claims her body, her sexuality, and dares to say no, is, even now, treated as a transgression.

She is still expected to adopt a life the system deems appropriate, within invisible boundaries. And while many no longer submit to it, there is no escaping the consequences that follow: judgement, bitterness, resentment. That, perhaps, has never truly changed.

We may have stepped out of darker times, but autonomy in women is still treated as rebellion. Still seen as defiance. Still marked as countercultural.

Let Them Sit With the Discomfort

A woman who thinks for herself is rarely feared openly. She is corrected, contained, and renamed.

The outspoken woman is called unstable, the independent one immoral, the self-directed one lonely. Control rarely announces itself; it disguises as concern. The language softens the punishment, but the intention remains.

We tend to fear what we cannot control.

A woman’s autonomy creates a shift in power the system is unaccustomed to. Not a single force, but a structure built from habit. Family expectations, inherited gender roles, and the comfort of a familiar hierarchy. So it resists what it cannot predict.

Autonomous women disrupt what was once considered stable. They unsettle hierarchies and shake the foundations of expectations long imposed upon them.

Hate is rarely personal. Sometimes, it is fear. Fear of threatened norms. Fear of weakening control. Their resentment is not about you, but about what your autonomy represents.

The discomfort of the new and the unexpected is human. But it is not your responsibility to accommodate it. Autonomy does not destroy order. It reveals who depended on inequality to feel secure.

If the cost of your autonomy is their discomfort, then allow it.

Do not shrink to be accepted. Do not soften to be less feared.

And if autonomy makes you a villain in stories written by fragile systems, then be the kind of villain who refuses to disappear.

After all, what is a woman who refuses silence, if not one once called disruptive, before she was understood?

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i planned to open substack today and write something meaningful like i have been thinking since well.. let’s just say days (saying weeks will make my inner critique faint) but yesterday, almost midnight, when the world was a far more awake than people like to admit, i was embraced by my quilt ( which by the way is the only type of ‘embrace’ i ever found myself in) and had a brilliant idea.

my mind took off to a dimly lit cafe. dark, rusty, charming and i saw this couple, seated right opposite my table. the girl looked weary with a smile so cheerful it almost looked like she was on the verge of breaking down. smiles are such bullies you see. and beside her sat a guy, resembling the first snow. i watched them together. how likely. i immediately decided what i will call them. so i named the girl-spring and the boy- winter.

i wanted to eavesdrop. my god did i want to. but even when i tried very hard (parental advice (can you give parental advice if you are not one yet?) - kids eavesdropping is not cool. i will certainly whack you behind your head if i ever catch you) i couldn’t hear a single thing. so of course what was a girl to do? i built a script of my own.

i imagined them to be…friends, who were something far more than that, something we’re yet to name. i didn’t move my eyes from them as i aligned my mentally prepared script according to their actions. i noticed they sat beside each other and not opposite. the boy pulled his chair closer to hers. they looked young. probably in their teenege years. i saw the girl speaking a little animatedly to the fellow. he smiled. so frosty. but she continued as if its the norm. could be. who knows, really.

i pretended they are to be separated soon. college, holidays, anything. and its their last meeting. what would be the girl saying? i wondered. my spring and winter felt entwined by the very prophecy. did you know spring technically begins in the middle of winter?

….and that was what i initially planned to write about. thinking of what it was while doing the exact opposite. humans, i tell you. but as i sit ( okay more like crouch) on my bed, wrapped in the same quilt as last night, a couple minutes by oliva dean musing from my speaker, i feel. thats about it. i just..feel. i don’t exactly know what yet. which is a little strange. believe it when i say i am pretty good at stripping and making out with my emotions. but i am not interested at the moment.

i wanted to write. what i thought yesterday. i was supposed to. yet i couldn’t stop thinking about not thinking. how many things we do in life just for the sake of doing? how many, really?

i know many of us are trained and expected to do things to reach somewhere, achieve something. someone. i know i am. my toxic trait is to always, always look for the destination. i never allow myself to enjoy the journey. a punishment of fulfilment devoid of the glee of living. but to let that seep into the one sheltered door of my happiness? writing? i think absolutely not.

so i decided to write. whatever came to mind. pouring thoughts from the rotten chests of my head.

just because.

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Nostalgia is a friend of mine who often visits with a journal of her own. She is a writer and thus recites her stories to me, and I adore her, believe me, god, I do, but how do I tell her that when she leaves, she always takes a piece of me with her?

Longing is an online mate. We have never met, really. He is mostly quiet, yet his silence speaks to me in a way as if we were twins since birth. Strange thing is, I know he is fond of me, and it would be a lie if I say I do not bask in his gaze, but I do not crave him like a lover but rather want him in a scandalous way. Sometimes, he is all I think about, like I am indulging in the forbidden. Perhaps that is the reason I can never say goodbye to him.

Grief is a distant aunt of mine. She resides in her country manor and often asks me to visit her. You see, I am a city girl and do not like the countryside all that much, but whenever she summons me, I always end up at her door-like a moth to the flame. I adore her worn coats and her cracked wine glass, which she insists is a part of her soul. She reminds me of the things I fear, and yet somehow I am forever near.

There's a fortune teller everyone likes in that old small town. Apparently, her name is Happiness, and each time I make my mind to visit her, my dear ones–guilt, longing, grief, insist we all go together, but that hasn’t happened yet. They tell me to wait for them and not to rush. Maybe we will make time someday. I hope in my heart. I would really like to meet her.

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There’s an ache-an echo of your name shimmering beneath my skin, but it never reaches my mouth.

The prophecy claimed us to be mates with a sleek thread entwined by the very Fates. Truly, I ponder, where must you be? What city do you like? Do you stay awake at night assembling your dreams? Have you ever wondered why there’s a void inside?

Can something be ‘reminiscent’ if you have never met?
...and yet I know I will recognise you, beloved, the one I have yearned for long before I even existed-but the question remains, will you be able to find the delicate red thread adorning my wrist that mirrors your own?

Perhaps we have met already while crossing the road or in a stuffed metro and we have exchanged a glance while I blushed and your ears turned red or in that dusty bookstore I frequent, oh you might have helped me pick up a book from the floor or who knows really, we never really met and we never will.

You will build a home with a grateful heart and work overtime, and you will sneak behind time to cherish moments of glee with the one you call love, and I would wonder if the prophets were right.

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a quiet ache disguised as a journal entry

and I want to write, to weep, to scream, to create, to destroy, to hate; then to love so much–so, so much that it wrecks; so much that it hurts. to breathe. and I want to be free and fragile and a lil psychotic. but god, even more, I wanna be held and coddled and whispered to and caressed and kept and preserved and maybe a little feared; a porcelain belonging to a working class mother, with a home–not a house, with kids, bunch of them, and a husband, present; picking me up from her top shelf on a slow sunday, blowing the dust off me, cleaning, pampering with a muslin cloth, gentle hands-lord, such. gentle. hands–keeping me safe and away from the world. even though just to serve a purpose.

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