The Journey exercise

I invite you to go on a short journey with me. As you read, let your imagination take over.

Picture yourself standing at the edge of a dense, endless forest. The air is cool and damp, and a narrow path stretches out in front of you. You step forward, slowly, carefully, and begin walking deeper into the trees.

The path isn’t easy. Roots catch at your feet, thorns scrape your skin, and the weight of exhaustion presses down on you. You have already crossed many challenges before this moment, and now you are tired, hungry, and wondering how much longer you can go on.

The forest grows darker. You feel the silence pressing in on you. Suddenly, you hear a sound behind you—the growls of wild dogs. A pack is chasing you, their snarls growing louder as they close in. Fear grips you. You run, stumbling, your heart pounding in your chest. Branches whip across your face as you push forward, desperate to escape. Just when you feel they are about to catch you, the path splits—you leap to the side, and somehow, miraculously, the dogs lose your trail. You collapse against a tree, trembling, but alive.

You gather yourself and walk on. A sound of running water reaches you. You find a clear stream, kneel down, and drink. Cool water fills you with just enough strength to continue. Then you see sunlight breaking through the branches above, and hope flickers inside you again.

But the forest tests you one last time. A steep hill rises in front of you. Each step feels heavier than the last, and your body wants to give up—but something deep within pushes you forward. Slowly, painfully, you climb.

At the top, breathless, you look ahead. And there it is—a house. Quiet, warm, welcoming. Relief floods through you. You rush towards it—but when you reach it, you find the doors and windows shut, the walls towering high above you. For a moment, despair sets in. Then, with the last of your strength, you begin to climb. Fingers slipping, muscles aching, you drag yourself upward, inch by inch, until finally, you pull yourself over and drop inside.

The air feels safe, comforting. You know you’ve reached the end of your long, difficult journey.

You climb the stairs quickly now, heart racing with anticipation. At the top, there is a single door. You open it and inside the room, waiting for you, is one person.

Pause for a moment. See their face. Notice who it is.

Now, come back. Tell me who did you see?

That person is the one who matters most to you, the one your heart seeks even in the hardest moments of your life.

Holding up a mirror

You know what’s truly entertaining? Shitty people. Not because they’re fun !God no — because they have absolutely no clue how shitty they are. In their head, they’re some tragic Bollywood hero going through a “solitary struggle.” In reality, they’re that neighbour aunty who borrows sugar and never returns the dabba or thanks you !

Shitty people have this amazing talent: zero self-awareness, 100% confidence.

• They cancel on you like it’s their birthright.
• They pass off nastiness with a line like, “Bas yaar, I’m very straightforward.” Translation: I have the tact of a pressure cooker whistle.
• And when you call them out? They act shocked like you told them Shah Rukh Khan is overrated which he is actually ;)

Here’s the thing: shitty people rarely wake up and think, “How can I ruin someone’s day today?” No, no. They wake up thinking, “I’m the victim, everyone else is the problem.” Meanwhile, everyone around them is dodging their energy like they dodge relatives during shaadi season or funerals 

And the moment of truth? When someone finally tells them, “Boss it’s you.” The face they make…wah! Pure gold. As if you’ve just revealed Maggi actually takes more than two minutes to cook.

So let’s stop making excuses for them. You’re not “unique,” you’re not “misunderstood,” you’re not “keeping it real.” You’re just… shitty. Full stop.

Arrey beta, if three people have already told you you’re the problem—believe them. This isn’t a conspiracy. It’s feedback. Take it.

The big M

Menopause. There, I said it. The word itself feels like it should be whispered in some secret club, like a VIP password that only women over 40 are allowed to know. All my friends are either going through it, about to go through it, or have already emerged on the other side like wise owls who survived hot-flash hell.

And now, it’s my turn.

So here’s the deal: brain fog, hot flashes, mood swings, midnight sweats, and the occasional “why did I just walk into this room again?” moment — all of that is apparently my new routine. It’s like my body’s gone from iOS 16 to Windows 95 overnight.

But the question lurking in the shadows:

Should I be worried? Will this make me less of a woman?

 society has long sold us the story that womanhood = periods + babies + hormones doing the salsa in our bloodstream. But what happens when your ovaries say, “You know what, we’ve clocked out, no overtime, no extensions, thanks very much”?

I like to think of it this way: if every month my eggs were sending postcards on their journey (“Dear uterus, wish you were here, hope the lining is cozy”), then my last egg deserves a dramatic farewell.

Maybe something like:

“Well, that’s it, folks. The end of the road. I gave it my best shot. Some of us made zygotes, some of us didn’t, but hey — what a ride! P.S. Send wine.”

But here’s the catch!!! I won’t even know which egg is my last. There’s no dramatic curtain call, no golden buzzer moment. Just one day you look back and realize, “Oh, that was it. The period finale. A series that ended without even a cliffhanger.”

And that’s kind of poetic, isn’t it?

Because here’s the thing: menopause doesn’t make me “less of a woman.” If anything, it makes me free, more seasoned, more me. No more calendars marked in red. No more emergency napkin hunts in public restrooms. No more “oops” pregnancy scares in your  40s. Just me, my hormones slowly chilling out, and the occasional dramatic hot flash to remind me that I’m still alive and kicking.

So, to the Big M bring it on.

If womanhood were a Netflix series, this isn’t the end; it’s just the new season. With better plot twists, less blood, and way more wine.

The Subtle Patriarchy of Inheritance in Educated Homes

Even in the most educated households, patriarchy doesn’t always scream — it whispers. It shows up not in sweeping declarations, but in quiet decisions, ambiguous conversations, and unfair expectations masked as family norms.

Recently, I experienced one such moment.

My father wanted to buy a house — one he was already living in and renting. He asked me to contribute a significant sum towards the purchase, saying he was giving me my “share” out of affection. He said the property would eventually be transferred in my name. What was striking wasn’t the financial request itself, but the casual framing of it: that this was being done for me, that it was a gesture of love.

My husband, who sat quietly through most of it, finally said what I was thinking: “She is paying for this. This is not a gift or affection. You’re taking money from her. Don’t position this as something you’re giving.” And in that moment, I saw something clearly. The same “affection” wasn’t needed for my brother. No such contribution was expected from him. He receives — unquestioned — simply by virtue of being the son.

This is how patriarchy hides in plain sight, even among the educated. In families that pride themselves on fairness, daughters are subtly reminded that they’re still outsiders when it comes to inheritance and property. It’s not always overt. Sometimes it’s the ambiguity — the kind that avoidant parents cultivate around wealth and property, leaving things “to be figured out later.” What that really means in Indian households is: the daughter will be sidelined, and the son will be defaulted to.

The cultural script is predictable. Disputes arise after the parents are gone, when nothing is clear and assumptions fester into arguments. The law in India is actually clear — daughters have an equal right to their father’s property under the Hindu Succession Act (amended in 2005). It doesn’t matter if she’s married. She has the same legal rights as her brother.

But society? Society will tell you that since you’re married, your husband will take care of you. That you shouldn’t ask too much. That a son has to “run the house” while the daughter now belongs “elsewhere.” It will silence the daughter with guilt, shame, and emotional blackmail, making her feel as if claiming what’s lawfully hers is a betrayal.

This is how relationships get fractured. Not when people die — but when they leave behind unspoken inequities that fester into wounds.

We need to have honest conversations in our families — especially the ones that claim to be progressive. Because patriarchal thinking doesn’t disappear with education. It just becomes more polite.

And if we don’t speak now, we leave silence to do the speaking for us — and that silence almost never sides with the daughter