Inside Out: Myself

you’re my favourite outfit, i’d wear you on me all day. you’re my favourite book, i’ll never be tired to read you all night. you’re my favourite song, i’d play you on loop until the world gets sick of us. you’re my favourite place, i’d keep coming back to you even when i’m lost in myself. you’re my favourite poem, not the rhyming kind—just the kind that feels like something. you’re my favourite meal, and i ain’t worried about calories when it’s you. you’re my favourite silence, the one that doesn't need filling. you’re my favourite chaos, the kind i’d choose even on my sanest days. you’re my favourite mistake, and i’d still make you again—eyes open, heart first. and maybe i’m too much sometimes, but you? you’re just enough in all the right ways. not perfect. not polished. but real. and that’s all i’ve ever wanted— not a fantasy. not a forever. just someone i’d pick again even when everything else changes. even when i’m nothing like who i used to be. i’d still pick you. i’d still we...

We named rivers after women, yet we pollute them without a second thought. We named cities after women, yet we fail to be civil—towards women, towards ourselves. We named mountains after women, only to deny them the right to peak, to rise beyond the shade of social oppression. We named airports after women, and still, we tie their wings every time they try to fly beyond what tradition permits. We named national awards after women, but no conferral could ever capture the weight of their silence, their tolerance, their strength. We named welfare schemes after women, yet we never stitched their wounds—of domestic wars, marital prisons, and generational pain. We named bridges after women, yet any woman who dares to cross the threshold of her house after dusk is crossed off, labeled, shamed. We named our country after a woman—Bharat Mata—only to loot, hurt, and rot her from within. How poetic we are in symbolism, yet brutal in practice. We celebrate women on stages, in speeches, in hashtags...

Why is it that when a man cooks, it’s called art , but when a woman does the same, it’s her duty ?  When did basic survival skills become gender-specific? Cooking isn’t masculine or feminine—it’s just human . The moment we assigned tasks to genders, we failed the whole point of equality, fellow young men. Somewhere down the line, we decided that wearing pink is “ too girly ”, being into skincare or mehndi is “ not manly ”, and having female friends is “ suspicious .” Let’s be honest—none of this has anything to do with biology. Expression doesn’t belong to one gender. Comfort isn’t gender-coded. And confidence doesn’t come from insecurity disguised as tradition, fellow young men. “Name a famous female chef,” you say—as if the world ever gave her the space to thrive without dragging her back with your labels. Women aren’t “ weaker .” They’ve just had to fight twice as hard to be seen , all while we sat comfortably behind the systems built to favor us. Stop mistaking your insecurity ...

"Yeah, these morals look interesting, let's see how people follow it in harmony." Imagine that's what your "God" would've thought in the beginning. That line might sound like it came out of a casual banter—but beneath it lies a question we've all wrestled with at some point: How would that entity anchor people to a moral compass without forcing a specific belief down their throats? It was quite simple - wrap morals in stories. Mythologies. Tales of gods, demons and redemption arcs. People relate to stories. And the one who tells the story often gets revered. Respected. Elevated. That’s how morals sneak into everyday life without preaching. But here's where it gets interesting: individuals start building their own philosophies over time. They question & shape personal ideologies. It becomes less about “what was told” and more about “what I believe.” That’s individuality kicking in. And with individuality, comes divergence. So now, we’ve got a ...

 God—if only non-believers didn’t build a propaganda machine of their own. It’s ironic how groupism has evolved, or rather devolved, from a vast construct like religion to something as intimate as one’s sexuality. We humans really have a knack for dumbing things down, even amongst our own kind. Somewhere along the way, we started confusing connection with shared beliefs and opinions. We assumed that liking the same things, thinking the same way, or standing under the same flag meant we were “bonded.” But real connection? It’s way deeper than that. It’s when your soul clicks with another like a two-piece puzzle finally complete. It’s like finding the other sock when you’re already late but still feel oddly satisfied. Like a perfect pair of prongs. A choir singing into the dusty corner of an empty stage. A music producer listening through his prized monitor speakers, feeling every note as if it’s alive. We were never meant to just agree, but to resonate. 🍃