The Cycle.

The Cycle.

She gets severe bouts of dysmenorrhea on the fourteenth of almost every month of the year. Sometimes her moon, as she almost lovingly calls her period, gets a little late; sometimes it arrives early. She doesn’t mind, because she lives by herself in a shoebox apartment in some obscure part of the city. For now. And her boyfriend is busy working hard because he said he wanted to give her a good life. So she doesn’t mind.

After all, how would you even mind, when you’re not in your senses anymore?

It started some time back in the summer. She’d gone to sleep, clutching at her tummy, groggy from an intentional overdose of Mefenamic Acid. The last thing she remembered, as she blacked out, was the fact that she was contemplating getting a hysterectomy done.

She didn’t remember anything afterwards.

Present day:

A shadowy figure follows him as he exits work. He’s distracted by a text from his new girlfriend and he’s typing away feverishly. He doesn’t see it coming. He feels a sharp pain, and then the world goes black.

The shadowy figure removes its hood and stuffs the body into a body bag. She picks up the bag with superhuman strength and swings it over her left shoulder. It’s the last day of her July moon, and there’s an immense rush going through her body. She must act quickly. She no longer feels her dysmenorrhea, she’s conquered it. She’s also really good at being an anesthesiologist. Knocking people out is right up her alley. She picks up his phone next and turns it off. It’s a good thing the whole thing’s just happened in a blind spot where no CCTV cameras could sense it.

She takes him to her car, with him still in a body bag, and proceeds to stuff him into the trunk. When she’s home, she retrieves the bag, takes him to her room, removes his belongings and proceeds to pour acid all over his unconscious body. She fishes through the bag, finds a pack of cigarettes and a woman’s undies. Not only was he cheating on her, he was also cheating on the other woman. With some other woman.

She lights up a cigarette and smirks as his body corrodes on the floor.

The next morning, she wakes up to a very strong odor in her apartment.

Might have fallen asleep funny last night, she tells asleep, as she rubs her left shoulder. In the middle of the floor, there’s an almost completely corroded human form, and she has no idea how it’s gotten there.

Horrified and disgusted, she makes her way to the kitchen table. There’s a wallet lying on the counter top. With shaking fingers she looks through it, and with a shock realizes it’s the guy she met over the summer she last experienced dysmenorrhea. The same guy that had promised her a good life. Her boyfriend of four months.

I cannot believe you killed him Moon, she says, and it’s the last thing she says before she takes a knife to her own wrists, killing herself and her alter ego in the process. Dissociative personality disorder sometimes just wins in the end.

After all, isn’t it better to die with the one you love, than rot in a jail cell, all by yourself?



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.

I Cheated and Felt Good

I Cheated and Felt Good

I’m guilty.

I’ve never had these …lapses. Never before. But I managed to slip up this one time.

I was home alone. He wasn’t around. The cat wasn’t around. The dog was with him. Everyone else was on holiday. Everyone but me. And when the cat is away…

The mouse will play. The girl will play. Argh. Ugh. Okay. Deep breath. Got a story to tell here. I’m sure you’re all like:

I’m gonna start from the beginning. I was unhappy. I didn’t like my routine, gym was frustrating the crap out of me and I couldn’t handle it anymore. It began one lazy Friday evening. I usually teach a batch of kids English on the weekends but my class had prior engagements that day, and they didn’t show up. What was a lonely woman to do? I logged in on to one fine app, started scrolling.

My, my.

All of that delicious, airbrushed looking skin. I could almost taste it through the screen. Yum. See, that’s how it started. With “this one little bite that couldn’t possibly hurt, could it?”

The thing with cheating, dear friends, is when you bite, you eventually start to fall. And with the falling comes the drowning. One weekend led to more weekends. One day of scrolling led to more days of scrolling. More days of cheating. You wouldn’t possibly know the satisfaction you get from giving into what you’re craving and before long, it becomes this addiction you can’t shake off.

One step forward, thirty billion steps back. You know it’s wrong, but it feels so good and you can’t stop.

And that’s how I cheated on my Keto. Happy April Fools’ Day, one day in advance.

Okay, PS: Swiggy and Zomato and other Food Delivery apps are really bad for you. Specially when you’re on Keto and you want to eat that box of beautiful, airbrushed looking donuts. Dear me. I think I broke Keto thrice and okay, it felt good but I guess I gotta uninstall all those apps now. I have zero restraint when I don’t have family around. Send help.

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.


Morning Routine, 100% Real

Morning Routine, 100% Real

You know how these bloggers make videos about what their morning routines look like, right? Waking up in their perfect beds, looking like fresh faced daisies, even with their hair in a bun, and smiles like the sun?

I wanted to be one of those girls too. For a while I tried very hard. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t because I’m not that person and I’m not even… special.

I’m going to keep it raw, and real.

I’m an early bird. Not because my alarm goes off at five, and I’m a light sleeper, but because most mornings I’m up even before my alarm has has a chance to go off, in cold sweat. I can’t remember days of the week where I haven’t woken up screaming because of nightmares. I still get them. They haven’t gone away for good.

While I wallow in self pity for a good fifteen minutes, I take the time to meditate because I have to survive another day. While you’re meditating, your brain is going to be on a thought-rush and you’ll suddenly be flooded with ten billion of those. Where did they even come from, you’ll wonder, I wonder that too. But I let them stay, eventually they pass.

It takes me another 15 minutes to meditate. When I’m in really bad shape, which is most days, I use Headspace. This app is a game changer. So calming.

Some cardio and green tea later, I check my weight every Monday. Another fight with myself ensues but I’m sure I’m winning the weight battle. I’m doing okay there. Most girls get good morning calls from their partners if they don’t already live with them, but I don’t. I let my man sleep, while telling myself it’s okay and that you don’t have to talk, text, call or meet a lot to be in a happy and healthy long distance relationship.

After I’ve showered and put on my face, I take a good while to eat my breakfast because this is when I wallow in more self pity, this is when I bottle up all my thoughts, pretend I’m doing great and I go about my day.

I’m a deeply unhappy person, that’s true, but the world doesn’t need to know that. Fake it till you make it.

Not Your Average Hooker

Not Your Average Hooker

So, I went to this “Family Restaurant” (as advertised on the board outside) just to chill for a bit. Again, for emphasis, FAMILY RESTAURANT.

The whole place was empty and it was just my friend and I, and I was wearing something very normal. Just a regular shirt and some jeans and quote, “more makeup than the average Indian woman wears on a regular basis”, unquote. The dust on the seemingly spotless seats, very evident on a closer look, was proof enough that the guy who owned the place didn’t get many customers at all.

I’m never gonna forget the way he acted.

The restaurant was called Mecaf Family Restaurant, and he had a nice place. Decent enough. You’d expect the owner to be anything but be scathing, but oh, he was. My friend and I were the only patrons and from the glances the owner threw our way, we could tell he wasn’t happy with us being there.

We barely finished our drinks and this waiter walked up to us with the check. What the actual fuck? We hadn’t even finished ordering, and they wanted us out. Because I had dramatic eye makeup and some super glossy lip going. I’ve had people look at me with super judgey looks in their eyes. I’ve had comments thrown my way. I’ve had women – women walking around with boyfriends – stare at me and then nudge the boyfriends, openly nodding heads in my direction. I’ve had a girl say, “OMG look at that hooker, so much eye makeup!” AND SHE DID NOT KNOW ME.


If wearing makeup denies me access to restaurants or gets me tags, and if people think that it makes me a hooker, so be it. But I’m also a hooker with a medical degree and a license. If wearing false eyelashes gives you access to scanning me with your moral police eyeballs, go ahead and judge me all you want. No woman ever wears makeup to impress a man, let me tell you that. She wears makeup to look good in photos and only for herself. What do most straight, uninterested males know about makeup anyway? The most interesting conversation I’ve ever had with a straight uninterested male was on if it hurts when I peel my false lashes off. And I gave a demo. And he was adorably surprised. Also, boyfriends are experts at ruining makeup so why would women wear makeup to impress a man anyway? The answer is no. No one is a hooker or trying to get laid when wearing makeup. We do it because it acts as a booster. Morale, confidence, sass, everything.

This bias towards women and in 2018 and this whole holier than thou attitude many restaurant owners show, has to stop. Live and let live, really.

WTF Wednesday- Teasing

WTF Wednesday- Teasing

I’ve talked about this before and I know my posts do tend to get slightly repetitive at times, but I wanted to address this issue.

Without beating about the bush too much, I’m gonna get straight to the point.

We all do relationships and we all have our own hits and misses, and sometimes we overlook deal-breakers because we love our partners way too much. Now, I’m not the most sensitive person in the world – if I were to describe myself, I’d say I have the sensitivity of a slightly blunt knife. Haha. Jokes apart, I don’t really have that many deal-breakers, but I do have this one thing that I hate. Actually, two things: infidelity and cruel jokes.

I’ve had my share of cruel jokes, fam. Life has played one too many on me. And I don’t like being the butt of the same repetitive jokes when I’m in love with someone who claims to love me back.

What does saying sorry way too many times justify? NOTHING. You may be apologizing profusely one second but then you go back and do the same thing all over again? That’s bad. That’s basically just mean. I know this is a silly thing to be going rather ranty about BUT hear me out okay? You compromise too much in a relationship – you don’t mind if you don’t get calls, or if they don’t wish you good morning. You don’t mind going days without seeing each other because you console yourself that they’re busy and working really hard. You wait to talk to them. And they call you at their own leisure and they make fun of you over what you’re wearing and how you look like and they say one of those hey I don’t mean any of these stupid things I say because I don’t mean any of them.

Like wow. And I’m so proud of you, love, b ’cause you probably didn’t even mean it when you said you loved me.

Stupid love.

WTF Wednesday – Astrologers

WTF Wednesday – Astrologers

What’s with Indian aunties and astrologers? My aunt dragged my butt to meet this dude so I have my palm read. Dear Godmother of Holy Begonias. 

For those of y’all wondering, yes, this the same aunt that randomly caught religion.

Moving on. I have ADHD, and having to sit there while a dude had my hands in his under a bright freaking table lamp was too much. Pure torture, I tell you. I don’t do the whole touchy-feely thing. I never even had a boyfriend hold my hand for so long. This also explains why none of my boyfriends lasted. *sigh* 

Some of the um, statements the dude made about my uh,  “personality” (in his words, no filter): 

1. You’re very shy and don’t talk to people. 

2. You hate makeup. (WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?) You loved it when you were younger, but you hate it now. 

3. You have a pronounced sex drive. Not kidding, he said that. With my mother right there.

 4. You’re an awesome chef.  

Not one of the above statements is true. 

I know for a fact, that I am a huge people person. I am flamboyant. I talk to people, when they talk to me. I don’t run away. No. 

I hate makeup? You’ve got to be kidding my ass. 

My sex drive is about as pronounced as Usain Bolt’s eyebrow hair. In other words, not pronounced at all. And blurry as hell. I wish I had some sort of drive. Be it sex or my car miles. 

I can’t cook for shiz. I however, have the appetite of a pig on weed. 

Some predictions he made:

1. You’re going abroad. You’d settle there. 

2. You’re gonna marry the guy you fall in love with. 

3. You’re gonna have a son. 

4. You’re gonna be highly qualified. And prosperous. 


Going abroad? Where? I’m assuming Bangladesh. 

Marrying the guy I fall in love with? My ass. 

Have a son?! Are you freaking kidding me? You can’t put lipstick on a son, wait, you can,  but then I do want daughter. Really. 

Highly qualified? I can’t even. 

What does this prove?

Astrologers are mostly doing a lot of woolly guesswork. And they totally make a commission off the jewelry stores when they ask you to wear some precious stone on your person. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 21st century and we’re still stuck in the middle ages. Why must we still match horoscopes, when we’re looking for a nice boy to marry your daughter? What guarantee do you have, of the marriage not failing? 

Which brings me to that one question – is astrology and palmistry even real?