Pages From Her Diary

I spent last night reading about death. Not in a morbid way — in the way you do at 1 a.m. when the flat is quiet and the mind has nowhere left to hide. Audio playing in the dark, one article leading to another, all of them circling the same question: Why are we so afraid of the one thing that is absolutely certain? We whisper about it. We change the subject. We postpone difficult conversations because some part of us assumes there will always be more time. It's the only appointment every single human being is guaranteed to keep, and we've collectively agreed not to discuss it. Epicurus had an answer that's logically perfect and emotionally useless. Where death is, you are not; where you are, death is not. So there's nothing to fear. Airtight. And it has never once comforted anybody. What Osho does differently I've been listening to a lot of Osho lately — usually late, usually in the dark, which is probably the only correct way to listen to him. And he does something...

Moving to a new city is a lot like getting married. You arrive full of hope. You promise to adjust. You tell yourself the difficult parts are temporary, that it takes time, that everyone says it gets better. And like most marriages, it either makes you or breaks you. Mostly, in my experience, it breaks you first. Not with anything dramatic. A city doesn't fight with you. It simply refuses to know your name . It lets you discover, slowly, how much of your identity was built by the streets you knew, the people who greeted you without asking who you were, and the places that once felt like home. But the real damage doesn't happen on weekdays. Weekdays are merciful. There is an office to go to, meetings to survive, deadlines to chase. Routine keeps your mind occupied and convinces you that you're doing okay. It's the weekends that expose the truth. The festivals. The evenings. The birthdays. The days when your phone is full of pictures of people laughing over dinner with fa...

 I believe in God . Or something like Him. A force. An order. A hand beyond my control. Call it God, call it the universe, call it whatever your grandmother called it. I believe in it. Here's why. There's a point in everything worth doing where your effort runs out. The 5 a.m. alarms, the planning, the polished version of yourself — and still, nothing moves the way you willed it. The job doesn't land. The room stays cold. The plan falls apart on a random Tuesday, no reason attached. And right there, hands empty, something in you looks up. Not weakness. Instinct. Okay. I've done my part. Now you take care of me. That's not defeat. That's hope . The most underrated force we have. Not the sit-back kind. The kind that keeps you showing up to a life that isn't cooperating, because some part of you still believes it's going somewhere. Take hope out of a person, and watch the fight leave with it. Which is why I've never understood people who let it go. Not ...

It was Father's Day last week. I didn't post anything about it. I posted what I always post — something honest and a little unglamorous. This time it was about how I write for myself , and how it's perfectly fine with me if not one single person ever reads it. A friend read it and said, almost like he was doing me a favour: "It was Father's Day, yaar. You should've posted about that." I just smiled. Because I don't chase the trending thing, and I don't write for views. Never have. But here's what I didn't say to him. The truth is — I did want to write about Father's Day. I sat down to, more than once. And I couldn't. Not because I had nothing to say, but because I don't actually know what a father's emotion feels like. I have never, in my whole life, seen my father emote to me. Not once. No "I'm proud of you," no tears, no open arms — just a quiet man and a quieter love I had to learn to read between the lines....

 I read something today that quietly caught me out. A writer — Kritika — wrote about the particular silence of posting something into the world and watching it collect exactly zero reads. That weird, specific heaviness of it. And her conclusion stayed with me: that the reader was never really the point of writing at all. That the person who gains the most from a piece of writing is not whoever reads it — it's the one who wrote it. I sat with that, and then I looked back at the last few weeks of my own evenings, and I felt a little exposed. Because what have I been doing? Berlin. Ved. Light Yagami. One after another, these long late-night posts dressed up as "character analysis." And tonight it's obvious, almost embarrassingly so: none of them were ever about Berlin or Ved or Kira. They were about me. They were me, sitting alone in a city I don't like, taking the mess in my head and quietly bullying it into sentences until it made some kind of sense. Berlin was jus...

So the film spiral I fell into didn't stop at Money Heist One reflection leads to another — that's how it goes when a new city leaves you with too many quiet evenings. Berlin had me thinking about  how  to live, about romancing the moment even when the moment is a strange town and a borrowed flat. And then, almost by accident, the algorithm threw  Tamasha  at me. Imtiaz Ali, 2015, Ranbir and Deepika. A film I'd watched years ago and shrugged off as "nice songs, slow story." I put it on as background noise while eating my dinner. I did not eat much dinner that night. Because this time — and I keep coming back to this,  the second watch is where the real film hides  — I wasn't watching a love story. I was watching a man I recognised. And I didn't like how much I recognised him. You know the setup. Ved meets Tara in Corsica, and they make a beautiful little pact: no real names, no real stories. For one week he gets to be anyone he wants — funny, wild, dramati...