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

Ye tera ghar ye mera ghar …

view of hillside buildings in shimla

One … two … three … four … the number reached almost twenty-five — almost twenty-five iron nails, used in construction. The nails I was busy picking up with a fridge magnet tied by a fragile sewing thread to one end of a rod. Given the size of my hands — jo kanoon ke haath jitne lambe nahi hain — it was difficult to grab them by bending over the washing area parapet. 

Lo and behold! There weren’t just nails. At the far end, there was a well-woven pacca house, constructed with pieces of rusty binding wire. I didn’t even get a whiff of this plan. It was built right under my nose, under the AC unit. No loose threads, no twigs, no leaves. Nothing. A sheer example of Vikshit Bharat. 

Apparently, without my knowledge, the grey-winged couple, who kept flying around the parapet, possibly scanning the place, finalized one of the chhajjas of my rented flat to build their nest. Lucky them! Neither do they need any legal papers nor any paper money to officiate over any territory, unlike many of us, who spend most of our lives saving money to buy a ghar that could be called mera. 

Like a gardener checking for weeds, the pigeons identified a seemingly safe spot and unanimously decided to lay the foundation of their sweet home. While they had already hammered the nail without much ado, I frantically kept trying to shoo them away by throwing water, only to fail. To my soft ears, their constant gutargoo began to sound like that duet song by Jagjit Singh and Chitra, Ye tera ghar ye mera ghar … 

The nest is not a problem; it is the squalor and the stench that accompany it. 

Every time I tried to dismantle the wires and nails with the same rod, these winged animals would work with more perseverance to assemble them. It seemed that every other day, we were testing each other’s patience and will. Neither of us was ready to give up like Putin and Zelenskyy, who are still at war even after 4 years. (This time I would Epstein from drawing a comparison with Mr Trump.)

But … but … but … The more you try to resist something or someone, the higher the possibility that you will fall for the same person or thing. And I’m as human as you, my readers. 

That’s the sole reason for me to keep coming back to the adamant and obdurate Mr Trump, who has the gumption to denigrate the Supreme Court justices on social media, calling them ‘Fools’ and “Lapdogs’, because for him, what matters is simply bringing back the era of MAGA — Make America Great Again. That’s what he often claims. But isn’t America still the most powerful country?

Is it the dignity of and duty towards the White House he’s worried about, or the profitability of his own house? Quite a debatable question.

But there can’t be any debate on the recent Taliban law regarding the legalization of domestic violence against women and girls, with terms and conditions applied — no broken bones and no open wounds. Sadly, these women are not even safe in their own homes. While world leaders seem to have turned a blind eye to this inhuman law, all eyes were turned on the robotic dog, or Robodog — a Chinese product passed off as Indian —  at the AI Summit back home. Undoubtedly, Indians are jugaadu in every which way. Or maybe, even today, the management of the Galgotia University (I like the name:)) believes in the 1950s Nehruvian slogan — Hindi-Chini Bhai Bhai.

Undoubtedly, Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam — the world is one family — is a good concept to practise, but not at the cost of maligning India’s rising fame. Professor Neha Singh’s fluttering responses to the media about the origin of the Robodog brought me back to the persistent fluttering of pigeons, which are also a part of the concept of Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam. 

I understand that as a part of this kutumb, I need to make more attempts to be empathetic. So, keeping my fingers crossed, I hope these pigeons will find a better place to build a ghar for themselves. 

They just need a good broker.

*****

RaGa: Ma, what happened?
Ma: Son, it’s time for Ghar Wapsi. 

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.