The funny thing is, nobody in the average Indian schools teaches you the important stuff. Sure, you learn factorials, HTML and the Preamble to the Constitution. You learn maybe French and you’re taught to play sports. But nobody sees the bigger picture: there’s no sex education, no classes specifically meant to teach you manners and your social studies teacher is a joke to you.

And kids these days, with their overexposure to the Internet, and their desire to grow up super fast, start looking like twenty-year-olds when they’re barely fifteen. The cringe is crippling. I should put that on a tee shirt. And sell it. The cringe is crippling, y’all.

Anyway, I’ve got a bit of a story-time today.

I’ve got this friend from college, and she travels around quite a bit. She’s been all over India, on her own, camera and backpack in tow, and it’s safe to say that she’s encountered a lot of fine uh, specimens of the human species. Here’s the thing, nobody shies away from criticism, when they’re the ones tossing “criticism” your way. She got called out for being supposedly grossly shameless (besharam) and easy (not even going to repeat the word they called her) and she took it all in her stride. It got so bad, there was a point where other women, overcome by fits of jealousy, no doubt, (because who are we kidding here – Indian women don’t have the freedom to solo travel, at least not the majority) posted hate comments on her feed. Again, proving to the masses that social media is super evil.

She never showed skin, never broke the rules, never really did anything to warrant such hate. But the hate kept coming. And then one day, it didn’t. Which was shocking.

She explained it all to me, the other day. That nothing beats staying classy. That you don’t get places by stooping to certain people’s levels. That, if you reply to whatever is being said, with kindness, despite the backlash, it frustrates people. Why? If you refuse to stay anything but classy, if you can’t be broken into pieces with words and actions even, it makes people super frustrated because they didn’t manage to destroy you. And that’s super important. This made a ton of sense to me. That you need to be kind and never let people get to you. That, if you need a weapon of mass-destruction of hatred and trolling, it has to be this. It doesn’t matter what you’re wearing. Again, you could be rocking Louboutin heels, you could be nouveau riche, and you could appear shiny as a new penny – but if your mind is in the damn gutter, you’re a total zero. It’s actually what’s inside your head and your heart, and how amazing your personality is, that actually really matters.

So go ahead, make that your weapon.

Elegance. Class. Sophistication. Keeping a cool head. The new weapons. The only weapons. Kill them with class, people.



Okay, so this is a super controversial topic to do a whole post on, if you think about it. Dissimulation. Oh my. My friend does come up with the most unconventional challenges.

We’re basically talking about the millions of ways people tend to pretend. Ooh, that rhymed. And ooh, I digress. Why must I digress? I’m such a child, you guys. Ahahaha. Excuse me while I gather my thoughts, stop being a chihuahua with ADHD and address the matter at hand. (Act of dissimulation: part one.)

See, I’m not like that in real life. (MAJOR ACT OF DISSIMULATION: Part two.)

I’m a normal person, I’m only weird on the blog. At least, that’s what I tell people. I don’t fake accents. It’s something that I picked up, ahahah. Just randomly. Like picking cheese off of my man’s pizza. I’ve never faked an accent, nope. I’ve also never been out of the the Asian Subcontinent. My Fake Brit Accent is totally normal. So is my friend’s London accent. She’s probably grown up in the Buckingham Palace. What do I know? (Act of dissimulation: part three.)

Every time I travel, I make sure I’m wearing nice shoes. I scuff them and clean them and ensure they’re spotless and the white tick is obvious. I tell people I’m not an influencer. That I don’t want to be an influencer. And I’ll go ahead and check what Olivia Palermo is wearing. I don’t follow any celebrities because I think it’s cool not to. But I’ll stalk them nonetheless. I don’t care what I look like. Oh, I woke up like this. Trust me, this is the ONLY selfie I took today. I’m hiding my phone so you don’t see how much I’ve photoshopped my nose. I tell them it’s only a good contour job. (Act of dissimulation: Part five.)

Your ex isn’t happy. But he shows off that he is. He’s married this woman randomly just to spite you. Your current isn’t happy. She misses her ex. Your best friend went broke and got robbed, en route to Italy. Your sister is headed towards a divorce and is bitter and angry. But look at all these peoples’ Instagrams: ooh, happy sappy photo gallery. It’s a thing now: We do it for the Gram. (Act of global dissimulation: part lord-knows-what.)

Like what do you expect from a word that starts with “diss”, I mean, come on, right? You’re dissing yourself already.

Okay, now jokes apart: how guilty are we as a generation? We’re all portraying things on social media and in front of most people, and we’re all pretending to be something we remotely aren’t. YouTubers post happy couple pictures and break up two weeks later. Nobody sees the bigger picture because we’ve been told it’s okay to fake it till we make it.

It’s not real life anymore, you know? It’s all pretend. There are songs about it. Chart-topping hits. Please make it end.



She looks at her phone, wondering if he’ll ever come home. It’s becoming a routine now. Six AM morning runs, the detox tea, the office hours, the gym. The desperation, the obsession with making him stay, has taken over her whole life and she doesn’t even know who she is anymore.

She’s almost twenty five, and she’s brilliant. She’s got free advice and she’s got a million. Neither of which helps her anyway. He wasn’t ever meant to stay. He was meant to go away, and go away he did. Today was just another day. Why, oh why, did she fall in love, why oh why, did she fall apart, why did she let herself go astray – all these questions burn into the back of her head.

Three days, and there’s been no contact.

A month goes by, still no change.

He’s missing, it’s like he never existed. His Insta and his Twitter, his Snapchat, the selfies with those filters – all seem fictional to her these days.

And then he resurfaces, New Girl on his arm. He doesn’t bother to break up, he just moves on. Ferrari and Dior Homme, sunset in Malibu, New Girl in his arms. Doesn’t matter if she’s a gold digger, she’s got the body. Doesn’t matter her heart seems empty, doesn’t matter because they’re both drunk on their vanity.

Doesn’t matter he managed to break a young woman’s heart – doesn’t matter it was with her best friend, doesn’t matter how many wedges drove these girls apart, doesn’t matter, none of that matters. She closes her eyes and the tears fall. She’s numb, she never wanted the money, she never wanted it all.

Funny how the only thing you want is the only thing that’s denied you – funny how closure is the hardest thing to give to your girl.



Journal entry – April 2, 2019:

It’s been exactly two months as a married woman. Sometimes I wonder if men are meant to lie thorough their teeth while doing their wedding vows. India has this long list of rules and traditions that must be followed before, during and after the wedding. There are the pre-wedding, the actual wedding and the post-wedding cold-feet situations. Cold feet, when it comes to the man, that is. I’m doing fine. I’m doing okay. I’m lying to you.

I’m far from fine.

It was a match made in heaven. At least that’s what everyone said says. He’s well educated and makes good money. And looks good. You made a brilliant choice, they said. I knew I’d made a very far-from-brilliant choice. You see, when you’re in a relationship with someone, you get too used to them. You don’t want to leave and start over with someone new. You ignore the red flags. You put on your armor: you go into battle. That’s what I did, I went into battle. I’d had several – four, to be precise – years of mastering the art of deception. You see, I’ve been projecting happiness so beautifully it’s impossible to say what I’ve been constantly feeling.

The initial days were just as bad.

It was meant to feel amazing. Your honeymoon phase was meant to make you happy. But not for me. I’ve always been the boyfriend and now I’m the husband, in the relationship. He does nothing. Doesn’t meet me halfway. And I can’t complain, because I chose this. I picked my misery and I picked my battle and I’m going to fight it.

He’s on leave from work this whole week.

He’s spent a total of five minutes with me. I’m not a nagging wife. I didn’t call him. He’s been missing since morning. I don’t know where he is, I don’t know when he’s going to come home. I don’t know how many pot brownies he’s going to wolf down with a friend and I don’t know how much alcohol will be downed. I don’t know any of that. It’s also my birthday and no one remembers around these parts. What are wives for, after all, if not to just bear your body weight and your children? What are wives for, if not to just exist, only when you need them? I married myself, it feels like. There’s work, there are bills I pay, and he doesn’t take care of any of that. I’m proud to say, I don’t make him spend. I never have. Almost half a decade with this man, half a decade of being in pain because somewhere I couldn’t walk away and start over.

I guess, marriage is battle. A lost one. That I’ve no clue what or whom I’m fighting for.

Actually Painful Stuff

Actually Painful Stuff

Have you read Simon vs The Homo Sapiens Agenda? Becky Albertalli just casually throws a line in there about how exhausting blogging actually is. That’s the number one thing on our list today: blogging, on the daily, is painful. Painfully hard.

Is there anything harder than that? Yes. Challenges. The 365 day challenge. The gallon-of-water-a-day challenge. The no sugar diet challenge. The list goes on. Now don’t get me wrong – we love lists on this side of the Internet. We do. In fact, my blog seems to be filled with listy posts that people actually managed to read without falling asleep. So yay, go me. My point here, before I digress, is lists are hard to do. Both to make and to stick to. Also, I cannot tell you the number of lists that I have taped to my fridge. It’s more like a noticeboard that’s kind of screaming for help with things left unchecked. Life is mental. Life is batcrap mental. Send help.

You know what else is difficult? Trying to live with Indian parents whose maid just quit on them. Again, don’t get me wrong. My parents are wonderful people. It’s the maid that’s kind of super attached to her new grandkid and didn’t want to be a maid anymore but kind of needed the money – so long story short, she got found out stealing moolah from our wallets and tried to make us look bad and well, um, she quit. Maid culture is rampant in India. Your mum won’t miss you when you’re not around but she’s going to miss the maid. She’s going to be all depressed because she’s the ONLY person who’s working a nine to five job in the circle of other brown mommies, and has to come home and make her own tea. I think this bothers her more than anything else, making her own tea. She detests her own cooking. Go figure. And she won’t like it if you make tea for her because the maid simply does it better. Like holy wow.

Now, as if THAT wasn’t enough, there’s my most painful experience ever – having to wash my makeup brushes every Sunday. It’s a process. You gotta find your brushes first. Make a nice concoction with dishwashing fluid and olive oil, making sure you don’t mess up the ratio. Next, you need to clean the pink Sigma glove you use to swirl your brushes on, so the dirt comes out. And you’ve to do all of that without annoying your mum and her ritualistic Sunday-cooking frenzy. And then you’ve to leave the bushes to dry and put them back in their proper containers so they don’t look messy.

It’s tough being a woman. It is.


Much Too Much

Much Too Much

And I’m the worst person on the planet. It’s official.

Please note: I’m not a qualified dietician. Or a nutritionist. Or even that good at community medicine. Or at general medicine. Or at physiology. Dear God, am I even good at anything? I’m not even good at ranting on a daily basis anymore.

What makes me say all of that?

Well, I recommended some protein to a loved one’s aunt. The aunt managed to have a hip fracture. And is still in recovery and has diabetes and hypertension to boot. And is also a vegetarian.

Said loved one asked me for a diet plan, because um, I’m a doctor and all.

And me being me, and wanting to be a know it all, recommended SOME protein (I repeat, some) to this aunt. And this is what made me feel like I should actually be sent to prison.

What happens when you recommend such a diet to a patient with chronic kidney disease?

You end up killing the patient.

A protein rich diet would inevitably lead to increased intraglomerular pressure and glomerular hyperfiltration. This can cause damage to your glomerular structure leading to or aggregating chronic kidney disease.  

Bro, what was I thinking? WHAT THE HECK WAS I DOING?

Who makes a mistake as basic as this one?

To top it all off, I have a lovely friend who said it’s okay to make mistakes because I would never make it to MD because I’m stupid that way. And it hurt. True, it didn’t embarrass me as much as I embarrassed myself, but it hurt all the same.

Why am I ranting about it here?

Here’s the thing.

When you’re a doctor, you’re dealing with people’s lives. When someone asks you advice on something super basic as what to avoid eating when stuck with CKD, you should be able to give the correct answer even when in deep sleep and even when you’ve got mouth full of toothpaste foam.

There’s no room for error.

There’s no room for mistakes when you’ve come so far and you make a goof up like this one in front of someone who’s super close to you. Not only have you managed to embarrass yourself, you’ve also earned your first strike.

Which brings me to my conclusion…

My other (highly negative) friend was right. I’m not fit to be a doctor anymore. I should give up my license and stick to being an insignificant blip on the surface of the Earth.

Have you ever had to face embarrassing situations like this one?

I know I’ll never recover from this. And I’ll never forgive myself. Will probably beat myself up till I actually die or something. What an end to 2018. Oh, brother.

The Sadistic Dad Monologues

The Sadistic Dad Monologues

“You’re crap.

No wait, you’re LOOSE crap.

You’re dumb.

You’re a waste of space.

You’re numb.

You’re flakier than breadcrumbs.

How long do I have to support you?

How long will you make me fend for you?

How long will I mend things for you?

Shut up and get to work.

Talking to you is so hard.

You never do what your mother and I want.

Talking to you is like talking to a corpse.

You’re just getting worse.

I wish you were never born.

I wish I could have killed you when you were young.

I wish I never spent a penny on you.

You’re just an investment gone wrong.

You’re brown trash and you only ever take and you take and you play your songs.

You’re filthy.

You’re vile.

You’re disgusting.

You’re as bitter as bile.

I wish you were dead.

And if you’re dying go kill yourself outside instead.”

This isn’t fiction. I’ve seen Dads treat their daughters this way. It’s bad enough to have dreams thrust upon a girl, and to have to deal with abuse isn’t something anyone has to go through. It’s a sin.

Everyday, I see kids with bruises, something their Dads gave them earlier – because the kid failed at math, or because the dad was drunk. Everyday I see a girl cry and have her dreams crushed because she has to live her parents’ dreams and doing something else would bring shame on the family. Marrying for love? Oh my. More shame.

When will this country change?

I’m thankful that it’s not the scene in every family, and that some of us have supportive parents but I wish these girls could live happy and not have to cry because they were born female. Having said that, I need to say I love you, Dad. Thanks for not being like this.

Just birthing a child doesn’t make you a Dad or a Mum. It just makes you a procreator. What makes you an actual parent is how human you act around your children. When you become a parent, please don’t be this way.

Good day, folks.

Things A 19 Year Old Taught Me

Things A 19 Year Old Taught Me

You know, sometimes you just meet people on the Internet and you take in their personality, and you think to yourself – “Bloody hell, what an amazing soul! Wish I was more like that!”

So I met Sabhyata, a design student, on Instagram, a couple months back. If you know me at all, you’d know that I never really talk about people unless I happen to admire/love/hate them in some way. And Sabhyata, she’s taught me a lot over the past couple of months. And I’m grateful. This post is by no means a promotion of ass-kissery (is that a word?) but a genuine appreciation for a beautiful person and something very different from all the ranting I normally do.

Today, I’m going to be raving.

So, who’s Sabhyata and why should you be following her on Instagram?

• She’s organized, in a different way.

Take this nineteen year old self-taught makeup lover, who posts crisp new content everyday, every single damn day. And that’s no mean feat because she’s got school, her chores, AND her feed to keep her busy and she manages everything so flawlessly it’s like she’s almost superhuman. She’s taught me how to manage my time better.

• She’s down to earth.

When you’re growing at the speed she’s growing, the attention gets to your head. The success gets to your head. Not for Sabhyata. I was watching her Instagram live and one thing she said touched my heart so much. Someone had asked her how it felt like, to have such a good number of followers in less than a year to which she replied – “Doesn’t matter whether I have 13 k or 100 k people following me, it’ll always be you guys watching me live at 2 in the morning, and I’ll still be like this.”

Again, this girl is only nineteen. Most teenagers don’t treat other people with the amount of love she does. And she doesn’t over do it either.

Also, she responds to every question. Doesn’t send a ♥️ emoji when someone slides into her DM with legit compliments and questions, and she’s always going to take time to hold an actual decent conversation with people.

She’s taught me to have my feet planted firmly on the ground.

• Friendship.

I talked about competition the other day. Sabhyata is her own competition, biggest critic and she’s everyone’s friend. One of my favorite one liners – “You’re my friend and I won’t ever respect you. Ahah. Why would I? We’re the same. And even if you get a Nobel prize, I’ll still have you as my friend who I’ll love. Not go on and say ah I respect you.”

Total gem, you guys. Total gem.

• Quality over Quantity.

Let’s talk about how professional she is. She learns as she grows and she posts content that’s super high quality too. I guess this is where blessing your feed originated from.

If you’re into makeup and you want to know why I’ve been fangirling so much go give her a follow @palletesandpaint on Instagram.

Can We Chill With The Competition?

Can We Chill With The Competition?

What’s wrong with people? I mean seriously? Kris Jenner is single handedly causing population explosion, and with a million kids and a billion grandkids to boot, the crazy seems to be overflowing.

It’s not just them, though. It’s the whole planet.

Once upon a happier time, competition meant two little kids battling it out on opposing debate teams. But now? It’s something unhealthy, twisted, heck, it’s evil.

Between making frenzied google searches for things like “how to make someone love you back” and “how to tell if someone’s no longer into you” and “latest trends 2018”, I chanced upon this: nipple injections. Fillers, or whatever the crap. And I’m not kidding people, this is an actual Allure magazine article.

…competing against Kendall Jenner’s nipples. Now I’ve seen everything. Really. 2018 is the year of the bat-shit crazy and it’s here to stay. Sigh. I miss the times when we were all actually happy. Millennials aren’t happy, people. We always want something else. We crave, we crave, we compete unnecessarily and we give ourselves enough aneurysms to keep the rest of the doctors happy.

Between DMs that go something like this

to women treating their boyfriends like pieces of vintage Louis Vuitton luggage, I’m so done. All I want right now, is for me to be able to dump everything and just get away to a cosy little place with no people and no cell phone reception.

Can we please do that? Thanks.

Nipple fillers. God!

Does Money Solve Things?

Does Money Solve Things?

Isn’t it crazy? The number of times we use “I” in a day? Subconsciously, we’re only constantly thinking of ourselves. Our lives, jobs, waistline, first-world issues like a broken fingernail.

Ever stopped to wonder what was going on with the rest of the world? Heck, ever wondered what was going on with the rest of your neighborhood? I’ve noticed a pattern. People are SO quick to be empathetic when a celebrity falls sick. Or when a celebrity gets slapped behind bars. I’m talking about Salman Khan, of course. He’s killed people and he’s poached blackbucks and he’s managed to get acquitted and now he’s managed to get bail.

Which makes me wonder – is money all that powerful?

At this rate, people would end up buying college degrees and have no knowledge about a thing at all. People would pay off income tax officers and exemptions from paying how much tax they should actually be paying. It’s scary that things like unfair justice can be bought these days. Oh wait, they’re already doing that. I mean, do people not have integrity anymore?

Maybe that’s why there’s a steep decline in actual, solid relationships and a steady incline in the sugar daddy situation. He pays for your crap and makes you Paris Hilton and you get to be the Kim Kardashian to his very much older Ray J. I don’t even know what’s up with me this morning. Maybe this is why I should stop reading the newspaper. It’s making kids believe that money can solve every which problem and that’s why they’re resorting to stupid headless ideas just to make money.

I saw this girl ask if she can sell her body to her ex boyfriend for allowance since her parents don’t give her money. Is this even normal? Or is this prostitution? Can anyone explain? Do people not realize that the more you yearn for, the worse it gets? Other people get jealous, and it leads to more problems than one can ever handle. I don’t think money really solves all problems. It just makes you nastier. But that’s just my opinion. It’s okay to be financially comfortable on your own terms. NOT okay to use it to exploit others.

I’m done with this country. Time to leave. I’ll be back with a nice post tomorrow, I swear. It won’t be so morbid. Have a good day, you guys.