Helen was a sucker for rules, a stickler for schedules. She had the same routine, always insisted that her family follow suit. Her sixteen year old teenage daughter was a model student, the kind of kid parents liked to show off sometimes. Her makeup would be perfect, hair brushed to perfection, teeth in perfectly straight lines. But she had a secret, one that wasn’t hers to keep. It was almost like she had an alter ego, the pain this other girl felt was far too deep.

You see, beneath all her perfection and all her perfect scores and all her med school aspirations, she had a different dream. The one she couldn’t talk to Helen about, the one that made her let out s million silent screams. The pressure had gotten too much, and it stared to build and build. She couldn’t do it anymore, her alter ego wasn’t strong-willed. And so one day, when her mother was out, and she was home alone, pretty little girl did what had to be done, and then there was nothing – Demons, begone.

Helen came home with husband in tow, fussing over the state of the kitchen floor. And she saw her baby there, supine, lifeless, stone-cold. What seemed like ages had passed by, when, taped to the the fridge, she saw…

The note:

I didn’t want you to know. I was so ashamed. I’m sorry Mama, I tried. I’ve been living under your shadow for so long, trying to be you for so long, that I’d forgotten what it was like to be myself. Between school and music lessons and debate club and your anatomy lessons, I didn’t have a second to myself. I wanted to write, Mama. I managed to still finish a book and I couldn’t get it published because you’d never let me go out alone. And you never understood what I wanted and what I actually lived for. I’m depressed, Mama, truly. I’ve always been. I can’t keep up the appearances anymore. I’m sorry I was selfish, but Mimi took over and ended it. It’s always been Mimi and I, since you never let me have friends. I met her in play-school, in the mirror, a spitting image of me and we have been inseparable ever since. Mimi told me things – that she knew you had a licensed gun, for example, in your bedside drawer. That you turned into an overachiever because you had your own mommy issues. I don’t want to turn into you, Mama. I can’t be a control freak like you. Mimi is everything to me. She draws and I write and we will be okay. We love you, Mama. No matter what you did to me and how much you put me through, the truth is I still love you. Will always do.




“Hi baby! Was just about to text you, what’s up?”

“I need to borrow fifteen grand. Stat. Thanks.”

“Okay, sending you the money right aw— hello? Ahahah. Oh you’ve hung up. That’s nice.”

“So A disappeared this morning, again, this time he didn’t really borrow as much. Only fifteen grand.”

“Do you see my eye roll right now, Sam? Do you? I’m your best friend and I can’t see you dating this guy and being his sugar mama anymore. Does he ever return the money he borrows?”

“That’s okay, really. This cafe is nice. How’s your cheesecake?”

“Nice try. I don’t wanna get involved anymore. If you’re happy with him, then don’t complain, you know?”

“You’re the only person I actually talk to. A never really has time to talk to me. He’s working a busy job and he’s too tired and I understand. But sometimes I get lonely, kinda.”

“Not to mention he never is too busy to ask you for favors. Not to mention he took Rachel out the other night for her birthday, but didn’t have money to take you out on yours. That’s okay, right? No cards. No flowers. No calls. That’s okay, yes?”

“Hey, birthdays are overrated anyway. Plus, they’ve been friends for over a decade now! I can’t be the jealous doubting type.”

“I can’t with you. Okay, I’ve to go now, catch up with you next week?”


“A, I’ve been calling since eight, it’s dinner time. Are you coming home or – are you at the pub again?”

“Yeah, babe, it’s so noisy in here, I’ll come home late. Don’t wait up for me.”



So, A’s been unavailable emotionally for months now. I try to break up, he doesn’t let me leave. Sometimes I want to tell him that I want to be needed, and that I would love to have the old romance back, but I feel like he won’t get me anyway.

It sucks. When you’re doing a live-in relationship with someone, specially in this part of the country. What if he actually lives up to what he threatens to do, and then ends up telling my parents? What if they make me quit my job and flush my dreams down the damn loo and go back home? I struggled a lot to get where I am, and to work as the creative head of this brand I’ve adored since I was little. I can’t throw it all away for a man.

But what do I do? Keep up this facade? My Instagram is fire and my boyfriend looks cute in all those photos. People think we’re couple goals. This image I’ve created is something I can’t let go of. Isn’t it sad, what we put up with? Isn’t it sad, how we don’t want anyone to know? Isn’t it sad, that I’m a sugar mama, when all I wanted was to be loved and adored?



I detest airports. There’s no fun, being inside a building that’s constantly buzzing like a giant beehive. And I don’t like flights, either. What’s so special about a metal capsule that happens to be a cesspool of germs? Nothing.

And yet, there I was, laptop and tote bag in hand, waiting in line to check in. And then bam, they announced the two-hour delay. Just peachy. The sky matched my mood, it was grey and gloomy and I was grey and gloomy. If there’s one thing I hate more than airports, it would have to be weddings. I hadn’t been home, and I hadn’t even seen my friends – in ages. But when your youngest cousin is getting married, you’ve to act happy, right? You can’t be a grumpy sourpuss and try to rain on someone’s parade, you know. Never mind the fact that you’d just started a business and had to take your work with you, even to the washrooms. No, siree.

I was pushing thirty, they liked to say, and still single – and was therefore, the black sheep of the family. All my cousins were married with kids and dogs and big a** houses, and here I was, the sore thumb, holed up somewhere, living a life that was falling apart and with no prospects, they liked to point out all the time, all by herself.

I never really feel sorry for myself. I’m doing okay. I have a custom clothing business that’s rather popular with influencers and I have a team and an office and everything. But I’m not a doctor or an engineer or a chartered accountant, and therefore, I’m unsuccessful and dumb. And I feel dumber when I’m around my family. So yay, go me, on my way to a wedding where I would be taken apart and scrutinized. FUN.

When I finally boarded, I made sure to enjoy the last few hours of peace. I guess I did enjoy that flight.

Nobody came to pick me up: no surprises there. I was adamant about staying at a hotel and nobody objected. Needless to say, my relationship with my own parents is strained and there’s no fixing things now.

I changed and did my makeup quickly and got into an Uber. It was the sangeet ceremony and I was already late. The instant I got into the backseat, it started pouring. I had to do a bit of a headless chicken run trying to get inside the damn venue. Try running in a lehenga that weighs as much as you do, and you’d know that’s some serious cardio right there.

When you’ve got Pammi aunties and Jaya aunties around, your life becomes a movie and these guys only exist for one sole purpose – fake constructive criticism. I had to endure some body-shaming and some makeup-shaming and some career shaming and some unmarried status shaming before I broke down. Indian weddings suck. I mean, I never cry. But that was a long flight. And I was hungry. But they also called me fat and ugly. My mother wasn’t even looking at me. I kept wishing she would just come over and tell me it was okay, but she seemed way too busy with the wedding that she would never get to have for her own kid, and so I left her alone. I went out and stood by myself in a corner, getting more drenched.

It was pouring. Tears were pouring.

I kept wishing I’d never shown up.

And then he showed up. And he had the kindest eyes. And he had booze. And we downed our sorrows. He was cute. He had the nicest smile. And no wedding band.

As we talked more, I realized that the rain had finally washed my mother’s misery away.



Hey guys. I hope you’ve been liking the posts I’ve been doing these days – the A to Z challenge is a toughie, not going to lie. But isn’t that what motivates you to keep writing?

I made a post back in the day about why I choose to write creepy content. I’d mentioned that I don’t like to be the regular, and I still don’t. Still going to say that I don’t like my characters clean or nasty – I prefer them to be a good mix of both. I like spectrums. I adore deviations. Blogging has been such a journey – from doing rants to fashion to makeup and now dark fiction, the genre keeps changing. And I love that. I live for that. It’ll keep changing till I find what fits me best.

This has been a quest. Pretty much how everything in my life has been.

I wanted to be a journalist when I was young, but I was fueled by this need to prove to people that I could go to med school and become a doctor. Halfway though pharmacology, I lost interest when they maimed rabbits – not really maimed but we did cut off their lashes – and the whole thing left a bitter taste in my mouth. Once you lose interest, you start to fail. I’ve failed academically but I managed to graduate and to work happily. For a while, I loved it. And then I rediscovered my love for art, lost interest in that when internship got crazy and here we are – floating, always floating. Some of us choose to go against the current, some of us go with it, but we’re all constantly on the move and we’re on the mend and we’re constantly finding something and we’re constantly evolving. And working towards a something that’s actually solid.

Someone complained to me that my writing was getting way too dark now, but that’s fine. It’s not like this genre is going to stick around forever, you know? Maybe someday, I’ll be doing historical fiction and turning into a Diana Gabaldon minus the meaty content. Ahahaha. Sometimes I don’t even know where I come up with stuff like this.

Anyway, I was just wondering – how did you pick the genre of your blog? Do you have a specific theme you stick to?



And so I changed, trying to fit into the ostentatious drama, because what else could I do, anyway?

It’s humiliating, having to strip down to your undies and try on clothes with a man you’ve only just started dating, specially when you’re being made to feel low and not good enough. I guess I was on autopilot. He made me try on a rather over the top blue dress with sequins and feathers, and I looked like a stripper in those extra high heels. And after what seemed like ages, he mercifully “allowed” me to wear a pair of shoes that weren’t as high. And this straitjacket of a dress he thought was classy. How do women breathe in stuff like this? It was like being stuffed into a sausage casing. He tucked my hair behind my ears and said he wanted me to be the best and have the best, and he led me downstairs, on his arm.

I was naive, I didn’t know what I was supposed to do, really.

Everything felt like it was on show, I felt exposed, and for obvious reasons – this was a show. This wasn’t me. I don’t have Angelina legs or Kendall Jenner collarbones. But I do have a nice face, he decided that, and he made sure it was the center of attention. Everyone was looking at me. At some point, I ended up being surrounded by men. I couldn’t remember getting drunk or getting into bed with people. Multiple people. I didn’t know where he was, or when he’d left me alone with them. These men who thought I was a mint-condition toy that needed some roughing up and some playing with. These guys that left me in the master bedroom when they were done. I’d never been with anyone before and my first time was a violation of my body and my rights.

I went back to my dorm, made it out of there somehow – with my pride wounded but my strength resolved, I decided to someone that could fight for women, fight for their rights, fight for them all.



I’ve always been the shy kind. Never really had many friends, or ambitions. I was a fly on the black walls of gloom, happy to blend in, and stay invisible. I was good at that, you know? Like being invisible was something I was born to do.

I went to college because my family wanted a lawyer in the family. If there’s one thing I’ve always openly detested, it was the thorough discussion of torts, and laws and commandments and what not. You’d think you’d be the Elle Woods of your college, but you end up being Epic Fail, and that was pretty much me.

When this guy from my class asked me out, it was kind of shocking.

You see, I’m no beauty. Actually, I’m pretty far from it. I was here for the sole purpose of the degree, never wanted to practice. My aspirations in life were – a, to find a loving husband and have kids, or b, to adopt a puppy with said loving husband. I wanted to be the invisible homemaker. I guess that’s what I’m comfortable doing – disappearing. And that’s exactly why, perhaps, he asked me out. He had it all going for him – the cars, the looks of old Hollywood movie stars, he had bling and he had everything.

He invited me over to a housewarming party one weekend.

The panic that followed was insane. My roommate helped me find a dress. By find, I mean, we hit up Rebecca and asked to borrow one of her many, many PR-package dresses. The perks of having a fashion blogger friend, my darlings, are limitless. I got ready, did my makeup real nice and prayed to the Lord that the boob tape would hold up. I don’t know HOW Kimberly Kardashian West does it. I don’t.

He sent a limo to the dorm. A LIMO.

When I arrived, shock hit me with the force of a speeding train. It was a sprawling mansion, with a pool, way too big for even a hundred people to live in. My legs trembled as I walked in. I remember feeling super out of place. Trophies and paintings. I saw a couple Monets. A good number people were invited and they all looked so expensive, it made me feel like it was almost indecent to see so much diamond on a woman. I looked distinctly shabby, in my Zaful dress, when these women were talking to each other about the new jet their husbands had recently acquired, or the fifty billion carat diamond rings that their fiancés gifted them.

I felt a sharp poke in my back. It was him and he dragged me into a walk in closet in his mother’s room. And demanded I change into at least a Giambattista Valli. That my pretty face needed a pretty dress, or people would think his new squeeze wasn’t being pampered enough.

That’s when I realized: I was a puppet in his ostentatious world and nothing would bring him more joy than to fix me. Rich people, I cannot stress enough, have weird whimsies.

To be continued.