Unfiltered Letters
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From OMAD to FOMAD: When Gluttony Feels Holy
A love letter to food and Ruchi — olive oil, garlic, and the kind of gluttony that feels almost holy. From OMAD to FOMAD, tonight, it’s enough.
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Fear of Abandonment: Heavy Breaths, Quiet Presences and the Weight We Carry
Sometimes healing is just heavy breaths and the quiet presence of someone who stays.
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Gratitude for Strangers: Finding Strength in Unexpected Kindness
Through chaos, hospital trips, and sleepless mornings, I discovered the power of gratitude for strangers who gave their time, hearts, and homes without asking for anything in return.
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Ganesh Chaturthi Noise Pollution: Dearest PPB, Dearer Ganesh
Three days of Ganesh Chaturthi noise pollution have turned my apartment into an echo chamber. My dog Zoe refuses to pee, my patience has evaporated, and Ganesh is yet to show up. This is not devotion; this is survival. Consider this my unfiltered hostage note.
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The Man Who Chews Water: Oum Pradutt, Unfiltered
He starts work at 8PM, chews water like it's got texture, and owes me a drink. This is Oum Pradutt—unfiltered, Bangalore-style.
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Holding Space for Emotional Pain Isn’t Loud
Not everyone knows how to ask how you're doing, but some don’t need to. This is for them—the ones who understand without explanation. Who hold your pain like it’s theirs. Who carry your silence like a language.
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Body Remembers Trauma: Cut the Crap and Start Healing
It wasn’t funny then. It’s not funny now. The stumbles, the creepy nicknames, the touches that weren’t accidents. And that thudding in your chest? That was your body sounding the alarm. This isn’t a memory to soften — it’s a truth to name. It came back today, uninvited. But this time, I didn’t freeze. I wrote. I remembered. I cut the crap. Literally.
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Unseen: The Story of the Favourite Child
She gave him tea. She never asked if I had slept that decade without nightmares. If I had ever flinched around warmth. My silence bought their comfort. And when I finally screamed — they called it betrayal.
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Anger and Immobility: The Stench of What No One Wants to Hear
There’s a strange violence in being forced to stay still when your mind is running marathons. I write this from a place of deep frustration — the kind that simmers under skin and bone, flaring into anger not because I’m bitter, but because I’m tired. Of being stuck. Of having to justify pain. Of the quiet pressure to package rage in politeness. Today, I let it spill — unfiltered, unapologetic.
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A Kindness Story in Delhi That Redefined Hospitality
There I was — quarter leg, full doubt, and no plan. I had to make a call. A real phone call. The kind I avoid like fresh fruit in airline meals. And on the other end of that hesitant, tongue-tied dial was a woman I’d never met — who, without flinching, opened her home and her heart to me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
