Inside Out: Myself

or... how about be human for once?  why does the internet tend to seek survival manuals from animals every now and then? humans can thrive for a purpose too? humans are allowed to choose independence over staying in their own hood too? humans can stay from prowling for validation but also crave for it without desperation? "the lion never sleeps" cool, humans burn out. "the wolf always protects its clan before its own self" sick, humans sometimes need to protect themselves too. "the eagle never bats an eye from the prey" great, humans need to look away because staring for too long hurts. and that makes us accept uncertainty not as a feature, but a weakness. what if the real strength isn't about being an animal, but accepting the fact that we are built with contradiction? how about "the human doesn't need to be a fucking animal to live through"? sometimes being human — messy, emotional, incomplete — is already brave enough. so yeah. be the ...

ever wondered why kids these days — even young adults like us — seem to lack “motivation” or “determination” for anything? why we don’t have a “dream,” at least not the kind the world expects us to have? it goes back to the ones who birthed us — the generation before ours. their dreams were born out of need. doctors who became one because a flu was spreading across the village. engineers who became one because the palm roofs kept leaking every time it rained. lawyers who became one because punishing a harasser with a fine didn’t feel cruel enough. their ambitions came from urgency.  from survival.  from necessity. marriage, family, a house — those were their “offers” to society. but now? they treat those same things like literal offers. “take it or leave it.” if it works, fine. if not, we scroll past. they had offers. we were told to have dreams. but somehow, their “offers” became our “dreams.” sadly. so what caused this shift? today, the world has made everything available to...

acne? volcanoes that rage, heal & form new lands. stretch marks? subtly sunlit ocean waves hitting the sand. pigmentation? dusk falling unevenly on clouds. freckles? stars that refused to wane away from your skin. hip dips? valleys between confidence and comfort. scars? carved echoes of survival that whispers perseverance. every inch of you is nature reciting her fables to her earthlings. you are the soil, storm and sunrise. alive. real. yourself. even the oceans have dimples. even the moon has craters. nature was never perfect, but is still beautiful. let your skin be what it wants, humming in its own dialect. because the opposite of flaw is not perfection. it's acceptance. because you are not a canvas. you are a landscape. one only the soul could truly see. 💗

everyone talks about big wins. the loud ones. the shiny ones. the ones that look good in captions. but what about the quiet firsts? the first steady step of an infant that makes a parent whisper, “they’re growing too fast.” the first school day without tears — that same kid, years later, sitting at twenty-something, wishing life still had nap breaks. the first time you walk out of a relationship that once felt like home, realizing peace feels better than that first dose of  emotional serotonin ever did. the first sandwich you make? independence. the first trash you throw right? responsibility. the first guilt of wanting to move on? perseverance. it’s funny how every giant leap started with one shaky step. so if they love who you are now — remember, you had to stumble first before you could stand tall. 💗

when you expect nothing, and you get nothing, you got what you expected. invisible contracts. the other person not knowing they signed for it being the funny part. something funnier? us getting mad for failure of THEIR delivery with the contract WE wrote. having zero expectations isn’t always sad. sometimes it’s peace. sometimes it’s protection. and if something does show up — love, kindness, even a little gesture — it feels like free extra fruit juice. the kind you didn’t order, but you’re grinning anyway. nothing is safe. something is a surprise. either way, you don’t lose.

“the more you go through, the more you don’t need to.” we’re built like that. we’re supposed to be like that. pain teaches. patterns repeat.  and your brain? it remembers . not everything that tickles your mind is trying to move in and live rent-free to haunt you. sometimes, it’s just knocking to say— “yo. chill. we’ve done this before. take a breath. think through. there’s an easier way out. trust me, you’ll find your way home.” even legends say—if you see the same tree twice in a forest, you’re lost. but the catch is... now you know you’re lost. and knowing is already step one. overthinking has two branches: one leads you deeper into the dark, the other reminds you where the light is.

i’m not healing like they say in social media. i’m not taking bubble baths or writing diaries listening to lo-fi beats. i’m just... upgrading. system reboot. patching bugs. deleting old files that slowed me down. some memories? recycled. some people? archived. some patterns? deleted. healing sounds soft. but this feels like fire. like i’m tearing down walls built with my bare hands just to find the windows behind them. i’m not trying to get “back” to anything. the old me doesn’t deserve a comeback. he did his job. this version’s got better features anyway.

someone i thrive & yearn to be? someone i'm secretly jealous of? someone i wish i was, any day? it’s me. tomorrow’s me. the one who knows where i’ve been, but doesn't wanna stay there. the one who still stumbles today, but laughs it away, dusts it off and fixes their playlist. the one who's always rewriting his own blueprint, while the world keeps assuming it knows his plan. i don't wanna be anyone else. just me. with more healing, less fear. more softness, less shame. more ‘i got this’, less ‘what if’. i’ll meet him soon. and when i do, i hope he smiles and says: “told you we’d make it.”

"ஒரு நொடி எங்கு போகிறாய் என மறந்தால், மருநொடி எங்கே வேணாலும் போகலாம்." oblivion. something a mere mortal mistakes for enlightenment. not just being carefree. not just going crazy. it’s softer than that. weirder than that. the ways to reach it? uncharted. you don’t need a mountain. or a meltdown. humans keep chasing landscapes, but the shift was always insideous. like the third bite of a crispy grilled cheese—when it finally hits right. like that one frozen watermelon chunk that makes your teeth lose all faith in warmth. like a baby biting a lemon, frozen in perplex while someone’s camera captures “first contact.” it’s not that you belong here. but you definitely wouldn’t go back there. it’s not heaven. it’s not hell. it’s… a Saturday evening. no Friday fatigue. no Sunday dread. just now. bare and ridiculous and weirdly enough.

imagine this. a two-storey compact bungalow. 3BHK on each floor. one’s hers. one’s mine. we never really settled who moves in first—so we just keep switching stories for the sake of drama. the terrace? corners lit only. asbestos roof overhead like it’s 2016 forever. grapevines over our heads. suspended swing chairs. bean bags dumped in the middle. our kids and spouses sipping on evening beverages like it’s a Netflix original. board games & crosswords turning into full-blown wars. every. single. evening. and the kitchen politics? immaculate. she cooks? I eat. I cook? she eats. no plates washed. no questions asked. we fight every morning for who gets the newspaper first— but God forbid it’s the Sunday Express. no one wants that. and music? one floor’s on 2010 Arijit Singh & Taylor Swift. another floor’s on Metro Boomin & AR Rahman. but once Santhosh Narayan comes on? peace treaty. truce signed. vibe matched. we hate the same neighbours. we gossip about soap operas like they o...

she’s not just a girl. she’s someone I’d choose, when I’m way too tired to even choose myself. she’s my weighted pink blanket. warmth with gravity - comfort that doesn’t ask for permission. she’s my black & yellow G-Shock. stubborn, loud, and ticking beside me even when time feels off. she’s my sugarless espresso. bitter, brave, never trying to impress - but still exactly what I need to stay awake. she’s my flat coke. indifferent, quiet, not perfect - but still the first thing I reach for. she’s the typo I refuse to fix. the sentence I keep because it sounds better the way it is. she’s the playlist I never put on shuffle. I already know what I want to hear, and it’s always her voice. she’s the fight I pick just to hear her argue back. because even her anger sounds like home. she’s the reason I check my phone in silence. and smirk like an idiot with no audience. she makes reality feel better than fables. like magic that actually pays rent. she’s not just a girl. she’s the error I wo...

killing yourself alone isn’t suicide. sometimes it’s just not taking your ibuprofen when your head’s ringing like a broken temple bell. sometimes it's not checking the weather because the rain doesn’t matter to you and neither do yourself. it’s replying “lmaooo I'm dead” and then staring at the wall for 3 hours straight, having quite a wish you were. it’s being so tired you forget your body needs you. being so numb that pain feels like a break from the silence. people think it’s overdramatic. they think you need to be saved. to be replenished. to "appear alive". but honestly? you’re not even asking for that. you just want the day to end without having to explain why it felt like drowning in a sea of plain sight. this isn’t a breakdown. this is maintenance. this is functioning. this is survival dressed up as laziness. this is fucking tuesday, mate.

what if heaven and hell are just consequential states of mind you attain for your actions at the moment, and not some mythological terrain for deceased souls to loiter about? let me get you through this: you steal peace from someone who trusted you? hell. you stood by someone when they didn’t even ask? heaven . nobody’s dying to find out anymore. you already know. your mind knows when it’s burning and when it’s weightless. and that’s that. no horns. no harps. just you, replaying your own decisions at 3:00AM like it’s your favourite artist's new album release. 🍃

it’s only up to a point that you are raised. what happens after that? you grow up. and no one really tells you when that happens. maybe it's the night you realize no one's gonna check on you if whether you got home safe. maybe it's the morning your coffee tastes more like survival than comfort. but it happens. suddenly, you’re not being told what to do. you’re just expected to know. how to feel. how to stay calm. how to move on. how to 'be okay'. and you start seeing people for what and who they are. not heroes. not villains. just people. flawed. tired. trying. your parents become stories you understand backwards. your friends become mirrors, and some of them crack. and you? you become quieter.  not because you’ve got nothing to say, but because you’ve figured out and learned what’s worth saying. growing up isn’t some grand revelation. it’s subtle. might even be boring. it’s bills. it’s boundaries. it’s choosing peace over proving a point. it’s crying without needin...

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. 🍃