AMEETHYST

Everyone seems to be in some kind of divine rush.  Everyone is chasing a dream, some godforsaken passion, a mad obsession, pure ambition... they  can call it what they like. To me, it just feels like someone put us in a tape recorder, hit fast-forward, and walked away with the pause button. What would life even look like if we paused? Not like we do on Spotify. Not like a show on Netflix. A real pause. The kind where you step out of your own head and watch yourself for a bit. That panic when someone doesn’t respond the way you expected. It’s ridiculous when you see it from the outside. Almost funny.  That chaos you create because you didn’t think things through, and now everyone else has to deal with it, too. That need for validation from people who wouldn’t notice your absence, let alone your presence. We look at stress the same way a chainsmoker looks at the cigarette - WE WANT IT EVEN IF THAT KILLS US! I’ve lived like that. For years. Didn’t arrive here clean. Mad...

Sometimes I look at my face and wonder who fast-forwarded my life without asking me. In my head, the year 2000 still feels like yesterday. Ten years ago, max. But the mirror doesn’t lie. The mirror counts better than memory. It shows interest on time I don’t even remember spending. There’s a whole decade in my life that feels like a blackout. Gone, erased, unclaimed. People I met, choices I made, things I said… I don’t remember living them. I remember them the way you remember a dream someone else told you. Through Facebook notifications. Through tagged photos. Proof that I existed, without any evidence that I was alive. And somewhere in that fog, I keep asking, " What went so wrong that I disappeared from my own life? " Then I remember. I got married. Not the villain origin story you think this is. It didn’t destroy me. It woke me up. And waking up is not a beautiful thing when you’ve spent your whole life asleep with your eyes open. I had spent over thirty years follo...

Yes, I said it. Don’t laugh. There’s a full-blown loverboy hiding inside every man who’s crossed 40… he’s just been buried under electricity bills, school fees and that one job he pretends to understand. Give him one day. Just one. No EMIs. No “ did you pay this? ” No grocery lists. No mental calculator running in the background. Watch what happens. Suddenly, he remembers he once wanted to take you to places that don’t have a Swiggy delivery radius. He wants to click photos, not of documents, but of sunsets. Of you. Of moments that don’t need proof. He has half a book inside him… not because he’s a writer, but because no one’s really heard his side of the story properly. And yes, in his head, he has already bought you a house on some island. Beach view.  Men are capable of dramatic, stupid, beautiful love. The kind that doesn’t always make sense. The kind that would look ridiculous if said out loud… so it stays unsaid. And what’s stopping them? It's not what you think. It’s not “ w...

When someone calls you a “cowardly cat”  (or the other obscene term you know), don’t get offended so fast.  You might’ve just been honoured with a title you didn't even know existed. Because if we’re being honest, cats are outrageously brave. Borderline delusional. And maybe that’s exactly the point. We, humans came up with this whole “ cats have nine lives ” thing as a joke, a myth, a cute little exaggeration. Cats didn’t understand a word, but they believed it. You’ll see one staring down from a height that would make your head spin like a mixer grinder. But cats? They don't pause. They simply jump.  Meanwhile, we need three weeks and one existential crisis to send a risky email. Cats live by one rule: Act first, regret later, like a legend , but deal with them anyway. We? We plan. We plan what to do, where to go, who to love, how to say it, when to say it, whether saying it will ruin our lives, and by the time we’re done planning… the moment is gone. Cats d...

I made tea once. Just once. That’s all it took to get permanently appointed for a role I never applied for. That particular day, the house felt… exhausted. Everyone was tired in their own quiet, heavy way. Just people who had given up for the day. And I, with zero experience and unnecessary confidence, walked into the kitchen and said, “ I’ll make tea. ” Nobody stopped me. That should have been my first warning. I opened the fridge, found ginger, and picked it up like I knew what I was doing. Took the grater out. First stroke, and I grated more finger than ginger. Stood there for a second like… this is normal. This is part of the process. But I didn’t stop. There was something weirdly nice about it. Just standing there, doing something simple, something I’d seen happen a hundred times but never really done. No big thinking. No pressure. Just… make tea. Water, milk, tea leaves, ginger. Not in that particular order. No measurements. Pure guesswork. Full jugaad. And somehow… it worked. I ...

The day my mask falls off… don’t expect that you will get to see a romantic poet showing happiness. Expect a monster unapologetically raining hell. No one who knows me actually wants to see that version of me. They can say they do. They’ll beg for honesty, for the “ real you. ” What they mean is a cleaner truth. A version they can survive. Not this. Because they’ve seen pieces of it before. Just fragments. And even that was enough to burn some bridges. Enough to make them step back, speak softer, choose their words like they’re walking on fire. So I learned how to behave. I became easier to hold. Softer to touch. I trimmed my edges, swallowed my reactions, turned storms into polite conversations. I made myself smaller so people could feel bigger around me. But nothing inside me got smaller. The rage didn’t leave. It just went underground. It sits there now. Dense. Heavy. Breathing. Like a dragon chained in a dark dungeon. And I’m tired. Tired of holding it. Tired of pretending it’s not...

Unpopular opinion: Most responsibilities in our lives deserve to be ignored. I was probably the most nonchalant human being in my family. When my father was working, he was an influential man. People handled most of the household work around him. I was just there. Watching. Like an audience member with popcorn. At some point, I asked for a dog. Or a cat. Something normal. My mother said she already had me and didn’t want another one at home. That was brutal, even for a kid like me. Anyway, childhood was like that. No responsibilities. Full freeloader mode. Going on all-expenses-paid trips to wherever I was allowed to go. Life was sorted without me doing anything about it. Then came teenage life. And suddenly, responsibilities appeared out of nowhere. “Control your feelings.” “Behave well.” “Score good marks.” They weren’t exactly responsibilities, but they felt like pressure dumped on me without warning. How was I supposed to do any of that? Did anyone actually learn this somewhere? Or...

Dabeli is overrated. Not misunderstood. Just… deeply confused.  It is the only food item that looks like it had an identity crisis halfway through being made, and nobody stepped in to help. What is it trying to be? A burger? A pav bhaji spin-off An uneducated sandwich? Make a decision. You can’t just take a pav, stuff it with mashed potato, throw in every emotion from sweet to spicy, and call it a personality. That’s not a snack. That’s bullying food. And the ingredients? Baap re baap. Sweet chutney. Spicy masala Crunchy peanuts that show up like they own the place. And then… pomegranate. Pomegranate. Who woke up one day and thought, “ You know what this savory snack needs? Fruit. ” What’s next? Mango in vada pav? Pineapple in misal? You never know it might even be possible. And the way people eat it… unbelievable. They take one bite, pause, nod as if they’ve just unlocked some deep culinary secret. “ Nice balance. ” Balance of what? Confusion and regret? Also, why is it always fal...