Posted on by nikita

Your intention matters. Does it? 

serene beach sunset in huarmey peru

Intentional living. A concept gaining momentum in our fast-paced lives. And rightfully so.

To the uninitiated, Intentional Living, according to the easily approachable baba Google, is about identifying your core values and actively designing your daily life—your time, energy, and resources—to align with those beliefs. It is the practice of moving off “autopilot” and making deliberate choices about who you want to be and how you want to spend your life. 

Since one of my life goals is to live healthily, I’ve been trying to practise this concept so passionately that while eating food, I make a conscious attempt to ensure that each of the misaligned teeth in my jaw gets to chew every morsel I eat. Only then do I allow it to enter my belly. In doing so, sometimes I tire my family that waits for me to finish my meals, so they can quickly move on with their lives. 

Mind you, water also receives a similar treatment. I make sure that the water I sip after food visits every corner of my small mouth, dislodging the debris along my gums and crevices. Only then is it allowed to mix with the food in the belly.

Following Maddy’s (R. Madhavan’s) advice on wellness and health, I drink my food and chew my water.

But even today, when I wear my pair of Kolhapuri chappals, I still can’t digest the fact that the modest, traditional Indian chappals, generally priced between ₹500-₹1,500, were displayed as leather sandals, at around ₹84,000 to ₹1.2 lakh, in the 2025 Milan menswear show by the Italian luxury fashion brand Prada. And the devil wore Kolhapuri without even acknowledging the Indian artisans who are the original creators.

Those in the leadership position should have at least thought through their intentions before designing a sheer fashion heist. Such a cultural appropriation cannot be as discreet and simple as making haldi dudh turmeric latte.  

Inspired by our PM’s aggressive warning, ‘ghar mein ghus kar maarenge’, the nationalists hit Prada left, right, and center through social media trolls. Eventually, the brand made a conscious effort to ethically collaborate with artisans from Maharashtra and Karnataka, thereby expanding India’s reach to global luxury markets.

Markets remind me of the economic inflation driven by global markets, and the PM’s appeal to the nation to practice austerity. Following his example, after some reflection, I decided to reduce the number of vehicles I use from one to zero. On some days, irrespective of an odd-or-even-number date, I walk down the streets to buy (hopefully) unadulterated milk and paneer, watermelons and mangoes that aren’t injected with any toxic chemicals or sweeteners, and vegetables whose price rises like the summer temperature in the city. 

While the heat of the sun is exhausting, equally draining would have been the news of the cancellation of the NEET-UG 2026 exam for aspiring doctors due to the choices of a few corrupt people in the system. Devdutt Pattanaik, the Indian mythologist and author of Escape The Bakasura Trap and many other books, would call these people Bakasura, trapped in the cycle of insatiable hunger—hunger for money? Power?  

Would a timely reflection before leaking the question papers have saved many futures?

That’s the question they should be pondering behind bars. Of course, if they are made to stay there for long.

But for me, nowadays, the question to mull over is: Should I chew hafooz or drink hafooz? 

*****

Me: Can I ask you a question?
Friend: Introspective? Umm … Leave it.

Posted on by nikita

Puzzling realities

canal in venice at dusk

At an impressionable age, I had watched Amitabh and Zeenat taking a romantic gondola ride through the canals of Venice, singing the famous romantic song, Do lafzon ki hain… Since then, my younger self considered Venice to be the epitome of romance. 

As I haven’t been able to visit Venice, I decided to bring the place to me. I bought a jigsaw puzzle of a scenic Venice sunset. Simple.

Puzzles and books bring to you the places you cannot go. 

It took me around 3-4 hours to complete the puzzle, as many of the tiny pieces are just splashes of colour in red, yellow, green, blue, violet, pink, and orange. Identifying the shapes of colour blobs was time-consuming. 

Since the job of a puzzle is to puzzle you, you play with that definite understanding; nevertheless, after watching a YouTube video I chanced upon, it seemed that the LoP’s attempt to draw an analogy between the PM and a magician in the recent LS session was more baffling. Mr Gandhi’s beating-around-the-bush way of building up his arguments on the government’s intent regarding the Women’s Reservation Bill seemed entertaining to many present there. 

While the leaders are entertained in Parliament from time to time, a daily dose of entertainment comes to me from across my balcony in the form of the man in boxer shorts, lounging (sometimes, tossing and turning) on the balcony, soaking up some Vitamin D. By the size of his paunch and his saggy chests, which are visible when he sits upright, he seems to be in his late 60s. 

By no means should my describing his body provoke you to think that I seek pleasure in body-shaming someone. Not at all. At the same time, it can’t be expected of me to close my eyes to the reality unfolding every summer morning in front of my eyes while I water my plants. This would be like asking many of you to stop gazing at the body of a scantily dressed female performer, dancing to the tune of an item song with provocative lyrics in many Bollywood movies.

Does it ring any bells? 

Indisputably, objectification of women in advertisements, movies, and music videos passed off as entertainment has been normalized to such an extent that it seamlessly fits like a piece of a puzzle into the so-called cultured-society framework. 

While certain concepts central to patriarchal society are acceptable to most, significant concepts like sexuality education that can help society become safe and truly progressive are brushed under the carpet. Generally, by both adult genders.

Recently, I happened to watch a solo drama exploring varied themes like child abuse, innocence, relationships, bullying, and so on. The space, accommodating a small group of around 40-50 people, had an adult audience across generations.  Most of them looked bewildered after the show, as they were ignorant of the content. Sophistication brought them to the show to get entertained, but they left feeling disillusioned. Presumably. The expressions on their faces looked like the multi-coloured pieces of my puzzle scattered across my dining table. Disorganized and chaotic.  

A thought-provoking show that it was, I came home to the tiny pieces of my puzzle lying haywire. Once again, I interlocked them into a coherent image of the Venetian sunset before a good night’s sleep.

*****

Teenager 1: Consulting a therapist or AI?
Teenager 2: Take a guess. 

Posted on by nikita

From Rags to Ragi: Stories of marginalization 

Do you remember mothers of the 90s packing one or two pieces of cotton cloth in her duffel bag on her journey by train, plane or by road?

That piece of cloth with frayed ends, which was once a part of your soft towel or a smooth bedsheet. That rectangular or square piece put to varied uses – wiping spilt food and liquid; dusting the microorganisms (visible only to the moms) off the seats; cleaning the pickle oil that had eventually trickled onto the other contents in the bag; or simply wiping messy hands after eating. That piece of cloth we call a rag.

Generally, when travelling, people carry scraps of cloth that look presentable, reflecting their status. Who would want to appear as ragged as their rags? 

And yet, at home, the same people may use a worn-out vest — once used to soak sweat like a sponge, silently soaking soap water — in their spacious kitchen.

What I’m driving at is, despite being deprived of the respect they deserve, rags have never stopped providing their service to the users. For example, in many Indian homes, an ostracized t-shirt from a wardrobe, mutilated with precision, and tied to a wooden stick, is used for dusting furniture; a worn-out single sock brings glow to the footwear it is rubbed against, even when it is left to grieve the loss of its partner; demoted pillow covers move from under the mighty head on a mattress to the dirty feet at the doorstep. 

Yet, quietly and silently, despite their substantial contribution in saving the environment, these worn-out pieces never expect any form of acknowledgement, much like generally unacknowledged maa ke haath ka khana. 

Like these rags, some foods too have lived quietly on the margins. Ragi or finger millet is one of them. One of the most sought-after superfoods in today’s health-conscious world.

Ignored for years, the grain, which was once considered poor man’s food, has moved from rags to riches.

Nutritionally rich, Ragi has won hearts (through social media and YouTube videos) before reaching stomachs. Suddenly, supermarket racks display myriad Ragi products – Ragi chakli, Ragi mamra, Ragi sticks, chips, cookies, Ragi this, Ragi that. It’s Ragi rage. 

The coarse grain was relegated to the corners of society, like an average student of the 90s who wasn’t academically strong enough to make it to the top ranks. The same reddish-brown grain that was deemed inferior to rice and wheat in India during the 1960s & 70s has surprisingly made a dhurandhar comeback.

Excluded from the company of the elite grains, much like a rag, it has eventually found its way into urban homes, now contributing, in its own modest way, quietly wiping away obesity and sedentary lifestyles from society. 

*****

Interviewer: Ma’am, how did you maintain your place amidst unwelcoming Bollywood stars?
Yami Gautam: Haq se.

Posted on by nikita

Age is just a number. Is it?

a group of people in uniform holding paper board with a text same as you

‘Inki umar kitni hai?’ inquired the female co-passenger on the train, scrutinizing my round face for a wrinkle or two.

‘Pachas (50),’ my bhabhi replied in a matter-of-fact tone, increasing my age by one number. 

Because age is just a number. 

No sooner did the lady in a blue salwar kameez and a dupatta covering her head hear the number than she went silent, like a MIL caught bitching her DIL and vice versa. Seemingly, her interest in me and my singlehood lasted even less than the reel time on IG once my age was revealed. (Thankfully, what my appearance can’t, my blogs do — sustain interest). 

Certainly, the lady didn’t subscribe to the cliché that age is just a number. Immediately, she scrolled and changed to another interesting topic, much like a toddler’s shifting interest in toys.

Of course, as a stranger, she wasn’t obliged to ‘like’ the content that was served to her, unlike many people who feel compelled to click on the ‘heart’ icon for various reasons: to trigger the release of dopamine; herd mentality; saving oneself from the fear of missing out; to initiate a conversation or a new relationship; and so on. 

Such an attitude makes me wonder — Does an individual’s passive submission to social media norms stem from the real-world notion of conforming to social norms, even at the cost of losing one’s individuality? And is the online pressure stronger than the offline ones?

I can’t say for sure, but one thing I can be certain about is the non-conformist attitude of the US President Mr.Trump. Breaking all presidential norms through his words and actions, he exemplifies that irate child who wakes up every morning with fresh new demands. 

One day, he commands to capture the Venezuelan leader Nicolás Maduro. The next day, he asks for Greenland. Insatiable that his appetite is, yet another day, he would demand for the Chagos Islands too. Before you can scroll through and analyze his demands, he’s ready with a new directive. And mind you, it’s for real, starkly different from the social media reels. 

At 79, Trump is apparently sending out a message that age is just a number for him. He can be as cranky as a small kid, demanding attention and praise at all times, even if it doesn’t materialize in the form of a Nobel Peace Prize.

While Trump is busy blowing his trumpet of individuality without a second thought, a thoughtful observation about his life and work by the musical maestro A.R. Rahman — globally renowned and for the right reasons — seems to have opened a Pandora’s box of various interpretations around his subtle remark on the ‘communal thing’, despite receiving accolades and awards, irrespective of his otherwise identity. A man of few words and more music, he has struck a wrong chord in many Indian hearts, thereby inviting a cacophony of backlash.

The fact of the matter is, with changing times and taste, A.R.Rahman may no longer be the only choice of an individual or a particular film industry, but his identity as an eminent music composer will remain intact for years to come. 

After all, a number is just an arithmetic concept. Music produced with Dil Se will still be hummed and sung, transcending cultures, communities, and countries. Jai Ho!

*****

Friend: What are you reading about?
Me: Anti-ageing tips by Bryan Johnson. 

Posted on by nikita

To be or not to be

woman walking on desert sand dunes at sunrise

With sincere apologies to Roxette.

Lay a wisp of hair
On my pillow
In the blanket
On the ground
I wake up lonely
This (h)air of silence
In the bedroom
And all around 

My latest pet peeve is finding strands of hair on my mattress, pillow and on every glistening white tile of my modest flat. In the morning, when I try to focus on inhaling and exhaling microbial air in different postures of Surya Namaskar, my unspectacled eyes fall on those valuable assets, strewn all around like the petals of flowers for the mehboob who won’t arrive. 

Some prefer to remain isolated as a single strand, seemingly enjoying solitude. In contrast, others tango in pairs, evoking envious looks from the watchers, and still others crowd and coil in groups, experiencing existential crises.

While Hastapadasan-ing and making a painful effort to touch the palms on the floor, I trap a strand or two under my square palm, forbidding them to escape into the thin air. I walk to the window in between my poses and discard them with a heavy heart and a lighter head. 

Mourning their departure till they disappear in the Brahmand they birthed from, I resume from where I left off. Moving ahead, the Dandasana pose helps me to have a bird’s-eye view of my surroundings, much like a hawk, trying to spot its prey. As soon as I can locate the tiny, silky bits, I go down to the floor in the Ashtanga pose and exhale vigorously through my mouth instead of my routinely used nostrils, driving them away for the time being. 

Since yoga has a reputation for bringing calmness to the body and mind, I would not want to tarnish its well-established local and global reputation. So, I have learnt to find a sliver of positivity in such a dire state of the thing of beauty, despite being stripped of the joy I once had. I happily tell myself that at least my hair hasn’t turned into fifty shades of grey yet, even when I’m pacing towards 50. 

With age, if I’m losing something, I’m also gaining something in return — experience and wisdom, validating Carl Jung’s idea of ‘individuation’. Of course, there are some visible and invisible (to others) changes in me, such as thinning hair, drier skin, weaker bone density, foggy memory, mood swings, hot flashes, and many other irritating symptoms. But I still feel excited like the batswoman who is one run short of getting a 50. The reason for this excitement is that I’m in the age slot (and I’m banking on my mom’s and nani’s genetics) when one can finally say tata bye-bye to the monthly trauma, which begins as early as adolescence.

From adolescence, willingly or unwillingly,  women prepare themselves to handle their periods and the cramps that never fail to accompany them. While some cultures celebrate menstruation, marking a girl’s first menstruation and her transitioning to womanhood, I would like to celebrate the end of it. Just because I feel it’s enough. Enough of the pain. Because hair is not the only thing I wait to lose with age. 

*****

He: I can’t feel, but I can see that you’re in pain.
She: Finally. Ty. 

To all the men
Happy International Men’s Day