This was written a year ago, in response to certain controversial comments made by Justin Humphrey, an Oklahoma state legislator.

He says we’re hosts, like the body I’ve lived in my entire life was a rented room, one I must vacate for whomever he likes.

He says we’re hosts, as if I haven’t already been told my entire life that I must please everyone around me, that what I want is secondary to what people may think, that being good and pretty is not an added bonus but a requirement to being a woman, to taking up space on this planet, and he says he “understands” why I would feel like my body is my body, but does he really? Does he really expect me to believe a word he says, after he tells me being pregnant makes me irresponsible, that I should give up my rights because I “invited that in”?

He says we’re hosts like the person I am doesn’t matter in the larger scheme of things, like the sole reason for my existence is so that my body can be used to house a future citizen, I mean I should’ve known my personal choices were something I would have to sacrifice as rent for just living, for just breathing, for just surviving.

He says we’re hosts and I barely flinch; being a girl is about learning to cling on to your humanity when every word you hear is a scalpel dissecting your personality, and if it were up to everyone else, all that would be left would be a cookie cutter daughter, a perfectly crafted woman, someone who never disagrees, someone so soft and docile, she rivals a lamb. If it were up to everyone else, I would participate in my own slaughter.

He says we’re hosts and I continue living. I continue being my own person, continue taking out my own trash, continue making my own decisions, whether irresponsible or not, I continue living. I continue living and trying to make a difference, I continue living and with every breath I take, every word I say, I prove him wrong.



I want to thank my imperfections.
I used to see you as flaws, but
I’ve learnt that every blemish,
every scar, every astray hair
makes me who I am. Thank you
for making me look at myself
and see a distinct person, not
a copy. Thank you for showing me
that beauty, beauty is not about
being perfect. It’s about being me.

2017/ 86

This year, you stopped running. Went from the flight risk to the anchor; you stopped hiding. For as long as you could remember, you controlled yourself through the food you ate and the words you said, you were always just a little bit too high strung. You were stretched thin, a taut string just waiting to break.

But this year? This year you stopped running. Started breathing. Started doing the things you love, stopped hiding the person you were. This year, you broke free.

You also were broken, people tossed your heart around like a football, and you were torn, each word he didn’t say made another part of you harden, but at the end? At the end, it didn’t matter.

It didn’t matter because you were alive. You are alive. You are alive and wild and vibrant- a summer breeze, a bird soaring through the sky, a flowing river- you are free.

Free from the expectations, from the self hatred, free from the worry, the panic, you’re free, because this year, this year you stopped running.

Running from yourself, from your obligations, running from your friends, your family, your enemies; you stopped running.

This year, you started living.

existing/ 62

Sometimes existing feels like/ holding my own head under water/ trying to breathe/ but/ drowning instead/ sometimes/ existing feels like choosing to be shot at/ when/ I could have just swallowed some pills/  sometimes/ existing just seems like/ the harder option

23 of 30/ crush/ 51

let this world crush me/ today,  all I have is a bitter blue tongue/ chilled from the lies it’s uttered/ what a change it is/ the world used to be mine/ now it doesn’t even look at me when I pass/ so let it crush me/ churn me/ twist me/ burn me/ let it cut me to my core/ I already know that all that’s left/ is rotten and rancid/ fit for nothing but/ destruction.

21/apology to everyone, ever

I’m sorry if I’m hard to handle. I’m sorry if you thought you were getting to know a different person, one who wasn’t so anxious or worried, one who behaved like this only sometimes, only in a bid to be endearing-

Sorry if you thought this was an play I was putting on; Sorry if you thought I was just another girl acting like she needed a saviour, but that was never my intention.

The truth is some days every bone in my body aches and creaks like a house lived in too long, and some days I can almost see myself being stuck in this town for another fifteen years and not changing at all, but instead having my personality preserved in stone; I’m not sure what to do.

I’m just not that glad to be alive in this body, not that glad to be alive at this time, in this place, around these people; I’m slowly dissolving. So I’m sorry if this is not what you signed up for, sorry if you were expecting a better deal, because so was I.

And that’s why I’m apologising, because I understand the disappointment you carry; I’ve been carrying it my whole life. Now, I’m just ready to be a different version of myself.

Six//One Indian Girl- a rant.

Book: One Indian Girl by Chetan Bhagat

I went into this book with immensely low expectations, and somehow still ended up disappointed.

For those of you who don’t know, Chetan Bhagat’s newest book is about a Indian woman with a brilliant career who’s just about to get married, until some complications from her past land up at the destination wedding that she is paying for.

Bhagat tried to write this as some sort of landmark book on Indian feminism for the Indian masses, and I commend him, honestly. I’m sure he had good intentions, etc etc.

But at the end of the day, leaving aside the pseudo feminism that is paraded throughout, the book still falls short on, well, pretty much everything.

Bhagat sticks to his money winning formula of 1) a wedding

2) a Punjabi family

3) an outspoken mother contrasted with a silent (in other books, even absent) father,

and yet touts this as a radical change (because of the female protagonist) which is slightly questionable (because a female protagonist doesnt mean his writing style has suddenly evolved and his plot formulae has been ignored?!)

Every single character is not only a living stereotype, but lacks any depth whatsoever, especially the protagonist, Radhika.

Radhika, from the start, is just painful. I mean, I get it, Chetan Bhagat just needed a woman who would be able to realistically have a whole bunch of issues because she’s a woman, but did that really mean that he had to confine her to just that?

Literally running to a different continent in order to escape her past, Radhika, an apparent genius, made me want to slap her. Multiple times. Bhagat also goes on about how she’s a nerd who’s become hot, etc,etc, but what I don’t understand is if she’s really that hot, how in the world does she meet only two men in the span of like, eight years? The author repeatedly talks about how she’s  so intelligent and so feminist and so independent that he fails to actually show it, and instead contradicts these characteristics through her actions.

Oh, just in case you were hoping for someone better, the rest of the characters arent much better. They all are living (kind of), breathing (doubtfully) stereotypes(definitely) and reading about them navigating their, well, stereotypes is just mind numbing.

But you know what, I get it. Bhagat has tried to introduce feminism to the masses in a way that’s easy to swallow, and he’s done in the style that he loves, with the intention of hopefully turning it into a picture perfect movie. And for any of the above objectives, the book works, technically.

But at the end of the day, the book can’t be judged by the intentions of its author, but only by its pages. And by its pages, One Indian Girl is a half baked plot with barely two dimensional characters. No matter why Chetan Bhagat wrote it, this is what matters, atleast for me.

(For the record- I don’t think his message was completely correct. I don’t think the book conveys what feminism is. I don’t think that’s how he should have tried to convey it. And I guess that makes it harder for me to like the story.)

That’s about it, if I continue I may never stop! I reaally hope you read some good books this week. Step out of your comfort zone, maybe it’ll work better for you than it did for me.

Letters To My Friend (Leave Me, I Will Forgive You)

Dear friend,
Every time you look in the mirror realise you are beautiful. Realise that I don’t have that advantage.

Dear friend,
I am there for you through everything you will ever go through. Know that my love is unconditional. Realise that I know yours isn’t.

Dear friend,
Know that you are worth so much more than seeing me sad for absolutely no reason. Realise that I will understand if you walk away from me.

Dear friend,
Feel free to assure yourself I’m fine. I’ll go along with it for you. Realise that I will never make you pretend to be something you’re not.

Dear friend,
Realise that I love you forever. Know that I know you don’t feel the same about me.