Capturing the politics and poetics of everyday life....

There’s a certain reverence with which we grow up hearing the word  academia.  It evokes visions of lamp-lit desks, devoted teachers, and the quiet hum of intellectual pursuit — a sanctuary where ideas bloom and minds evolve. For years, I too believed that academic spaces were temples of thought, where love for knowledge triumphed over everything else. But when you step beyond the classroom into the corridors of power, politics, and fragile egos, that sacred illusion begins to crumble. You begin to see that academia, like life itself, is not a pure realm of enlightenment but a  theatre of light and shadow  — where brilliance coexists with bitterness, and inspiration often rubs shoulders with insecurity.  But just when you think the system has consumed every shred of meaning, something inexplicable — call it grace, fate, or divine mischief — steps in, rearranging the chaos into clarity and restoring your faith in the unseen order of things. There was a time when ...

Somewhere between the hum of notifications and the glow of screens, we seem to have misplaced our sense of stillness. The clock no longer ticks in seconds but in swipes, and silence—once a space for thought—now feels like an interruption. We live in a world that celebrates motion more than meaning, presence more than depth. Every click promises connection, every scroll, a sense of purpose. Yet, beneath this shimmering web of speed and access lies an unnerving void—a quiet fatigue of the mind and a dull ache of the spirit. We are faster than ever before, but perhaps never have we been so  mentally scattered, emotionally fragile, and ethically adrift. We live in an age of  supersonic speed and hyperconnectivity , where being fast is mistaken for being efficient and doing more is confused with doing better. Information is no longer something we seek to understand - it’s something we consume, endlessly and often mindlessly. The sheer access to an infinite pool of data has made us ...

Friendships can be the most beautiful - and the most brutal - stories we live. Some bonds are like deep-rooted oaks, bending but never breaking through life’s storms. Others are like fireworks — intense, dazzling, and gone before you even blink. But the most dangerous ones? They’re the friendships that oscillate between love and hate, loyalty and betrayal, until you can’t tell whether it’s affection or warfare. These relationships are not just emotionally exhausting; they’re psychological thrillers in disguise. T here are people whose loyalties shift faster than weather in April. One day, they’re inseparable — talking for hours, sharing secrets, and making you believe in “forever friendships.” Then suddenly, you ask about one of them, and the other mutters a vague, uncomfortable sentence. Just like that, the dream duo has vanished into thin air. You don’t even need to ask what happened. Life, as always, moves on - cruelly, quietly, without explanation. Some relationships, though, have ...

They say the umbilical cord is cut at birth — but what if it never truly is? This blog traces the invisible cord that ties mothers to their children long after delivery — a cord woven from love, guilt, expectation, and the quiet erasure of the woman she once was. Between sleepless nights and missed deadlines, between ambition and affection, lies the untold story of every mother who wonders:  Did I really get free that day, or did I just get tied in a new way? She once studied Biology. She knew all about the umbilical cord — that fragile, miraculous lifeline connecting a baby to its mother. It carries oxygen, nutrients, and life itself from one body to another. And then, at the moment of birth, it is clamped and cut — a symbolic act of separation, or perhaps, liberation. But no one tells you that the cord never really disappears. After the delivery, though biologically detached, the baby remains utterly dependent — feeding, sleeping, breathing through the rhythm of its mother’s hear...

Silence speaks its own language, with a grammar etched in stillness. It is the deepest conversation, a quiet force that soothes conflict and heartache. In silence, you hear the whispers of your inner voice, the pulse of your life’s rhythm. And it is into this silence that our souls slip away, when the heart beats its final note.

In every manicured garden and landscaped lawn lies an unspoken story of control. We prune, we weed, we shape — believing beauty belongs only to what we can tame. But beyond these boundaries, in the cracks of concrete and the edges of forgotten fields, wild plants thrive — irreverent, anarchic, and free. This blog is a tribute to that green insurgency — to the shrubs, creepers, and weeds that defy the authoritarian aesthetics of order and productivity. They remind us that life’s true vitality often blooms in defiance, not in discipline. Wildness, after all, is not chaos — it is resistance. Wild plants are nature’s green army — a brigade of shrubs, herbs, creepers, and climbers, marching through the manicured lawns of civilization. They slip between cracks in the pavement, sprout from forgotten corners, and challenge the dictatorship of design — a rebellion against the authoritarian logic of beauty, order, and control. The world of curated gardens is a performance — trimmed, arranged, an...

We often imagine violence as something loud, visible, and external — a gunshot, a slap, a scream. But there exists another kind of violence, quieter and far more insidious, that seeps into the folds of everyday life. It’s the violence we inflict upon ourselves when we internalize the world’s gaze — when we allow other people’s opinions, expectations, and definitions of “success” or “peace” to rewrite the script of our lives. This violence does not draw blood. It drains vitality. It comes disguised as discipline, perfection, politeness, or self-control. It is the violence of shrinking to fit, of choosing silence to avoid conflict, of striving endlessly to meet invisible standards that promise worth but deliver exhaustion. This poem emerges from that realization — that  violence is not only what the world does to us , but also what we do to ourselves in the name of peace, perfection, and belonging. It’s about the inner wars that wear gentle faces, the quiet murders we commit in the n...

We live in a world obsessed with counting—marks, trophies, likes, shares, gifts, outcomes. Almost everything in life today is documented, measured, and reduced into data. But what happens to those experiences that cannot be captured by numbers - the in-between shades of colour, the fleeting emotions, the depth of relationships, or the quiet beauty of silence? This piece reflects on how the culture of quantification risks erasing the unmeasurable rhythms of life, and why it is often the immeasurable that makes us most human. If words are windows to the world, then their edges frame the way we see, shaping, defining, confining our worlds. Education teaches us to put life into words: colours into neat labels - red, blue, green, black. tastes into categories - sweet, sour, bitter, salty, spicy. emotions into single terms - love, happiness, sadness, desire. relationships into roles - father, mother, sister, brother, friend. And soon, words themselves are reduced to numbers. Quality is asses...

What does it really mean to “walk out on family”? At first glance, the phrase sounds straightforward and even gender-neutral. But through the lens of culture, it carries a heavy weight - especially when the one doing the walking out is a woman. Society often condemns such acts as selfish or unnatural, reducing women to caricatures when they step outside the strict boundaries of family life. Yet not all walkouts are loud or dramatic. Many women resist quietly, in fleeting moments of refusal, carving out hidden spaces of selfhood within the folds of patriarchy. This blog reflects on these subtle, everyday acts of defiance - resistances that may appear invisible, but which hold profound power. When we say someone “walked out on family,” do we ever pause to ask:  who do we imagine doing the walking out ? The phrase sounds gender-neutral, but through the lens of culture it rarely is. The act becomes deeply political the moment the subject is a woman. For women, to walk out on family is ...