Shh! Not A Writer.

      I recently watched Chokher Bali and Parineeta , both set in Bengal,  and was completely taken aback by the world they created. The delicate Bengali cadence, the rhythm of Rabindra Sangeet, the flash of red in sarees and sindoor, the understated elegance of jewellery, the intellect of the men, the quiet strength of the women, the way every household seemed soaked in poetry and restraint; it all made me want to step into that world. But what lingered long after the credits rolled wasn’t just the beauty. It was the ache beneath it, the emotional landscape of women like Binodhini and Lalita , and how eerily familiar their stories felt even now.                                                 Both women are complex, intelligent, emotionally aware, and deeply attuned to love,  in its most nuanced forms. Yet, both are drawn to men w...

 I read a poem today by Nikita Gill titled "Dance." It begins with a line that just doesn’t leave you easily:   “I will not have you without the darkness that hides within you.  I will not let you have me without the madness that makes me. If our demons cannot dance, neither can we.” It’s such an intense thing to say, but it feels true in a way that’s hard to explain. You can’t have your yin without your yang. It goes both ways. Maybe that’s what she’s really saying that love isn’t about keeping things neat and pretty. It’s about holding space for the mess, for the moods, for the shadows that come with us. Sometimes we push people to do things. Not because we want to hurt them, but because we love them. Because we want them to see something they’re missing. But for them, it feels like rejection. They say, “I’m not trying to hurt you,” not realising that’s exactly what it does. It’s strange how love can turn into the very thing that wounds you. And then comes that qui...

                          I recently read The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, and one line stopped me in my tracks: “You are more to me than all art can ever be.” It is Sybil Vane’s confession to Dorian, a surrender of her entire world to the weight of love. Sometimes, I think blind people see art more clearly than anyone else; they don’t need the colours or the brushstrokes, only the shape of feeling. Yet when both luck and art fail us, when love collapses under its own beauty, we seldom remind ourselves that we are already the artwork. To be loved is a kind of luck. It is not something you can demand, nor something you can build with your hands. It arrives the way sunlight falls through a window; without asking, without reason (But leaving the window open or closed is on us). Some are blessed by it, and others wait their whole lives, staring at the glass, hoping for that same warmth...