Epiphany in the Cacophony

  • Ready or Not, Here I Come

    Your words and I are playing an unfair game of hide-and-seek.

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  • Notes for 2018

    I’ve come to realize that defining moments rarely announce their arrival. Simply disguise themselves in our everyday lives, hiding in conversations, thoughts and hopes.

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  • Ladies Compartment

    I challenge you to find another place on earth with more women per square foot than the ladies compartment of the Mumbai local.

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  • Inheritance

    I realise that the real family heirloom lies in our love for Bukowski, our passionate debates at dinner, Ammama’s home remedies for acne and the bedtime stories I’ll tell my children someday.

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  • Postcards from Poverty

    Hello. My name is Kishan. I live in Rajendra Prasad Chawl, Dharavi. If you need to reach me, just ask where Kishan lives. You don’t need a house number. Everyone knows me. I work as a watchman at Ashish sir’s house. “Just call me Ashish” he says. But I call him Sir anyway. Apparently he’s…

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  • Inside Out

    My mother always told me, Exfoliate. Moisturize. Wear sunscreen. It’s hard to say when it really was that I started caring about my looks. I forget what ran through my mind when I first stepped into a parlour and asked to get my eyebrows threaded. I forget if I was shy the first time I…

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  • AIB Roast – Well done? Or Extra Rare?

    28th January. We had one agenda. We spent our evening glued to our laptops. Offended. Disgusted. Amused. We watched the AIB Knockout right to the finish. Some of us, twice. This roast was the talk of the town. Over the last week, social media has been flooded with an outrage on the negative feedback that…

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  • A for Apple. B for Bullet.

    Seems almost absurd now, that a world like this, could inspire poetry.

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  • Behind the Curtains

    But inside this dimly lit brothel, I am rich. My money is never snatched from my hands by an alcoholic husband. I am not answerable to an abusive father. When I smile, I do it with every tooth in place.

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  • Mums the Word

    I realise that the relationships we have with our mothers was never influenced by the number of breakfasts they made us, the bedtime stories they told or how many dance recitals they attended. But by how these gestures made us feel.

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