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Bitter Old Man

This evening, something happened that got under my skin more than I care to admit. I was down in the compound with the kids — by which I mean my dogs — playing a relaxed game of fetch like we’ve done since 2019. These are kids I’ve raised with care, consistency, and love. They don’t bark at passers-by. They don’t jump on people. They’ve never soiled the compound. We play in our little side of the…

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The Mirrors In the Mahal

A friend of mine is doing a show, and he has asked me to perform to two songs. One, of course, is a Sit Down qawwali — but the second song is a dance number. Basically, it’s a courtesan’s number, it comes from one of my favourite movies. You guessed it. It is picturised on one of my favourite actresses, Madhubala. It is sung by one of my favourite singers, Lata Mageshkar. It is composed by one of…

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The Many Faces of Anxiety

I didn’t set out to write about anxiety today. But like most days that begin gently and gather weight, yesterday left me with a churning restlessness I couldn’t shake off. And now here I am, trying to name it. It began with animal abuse videos flooding my Instagram feed—violent, horrific glimpses into a world I wish didn’t exist. I know we’re all supposed to just scroll past or log off, but I…

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Superman

Light Restored: David Corenswet’s Superman Shines I went to the first-night late showing of Superman with zero expectations—especially not expecting anything from star David Corenswet. But from the very opening, the film radiates light in a way Henry Cavill’s brooding take simply never did. Cavill’s Superman was relentless, vicious, bleak—more dark Batman than hopeful beacon. Corenswet, on the…

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Another Life Lost

Earlier this week in Mumbai, Raj, a 32-year-old chartered accountant, died by suicide after enduring eighteen months of harassment and blackmail over a private video. The police confirmed that two individuals extorted over ₹3 crore from him by threatening to circulate this video. He was made to steal from his company and deplete his personal savings. His sister later revealed that the…

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Inheritance

I grew up with addiction. My father was an alcoholic—brilliant, complex, deeply flawed. He didn’t just drink; he unravelled. And in the process, he unravelled others. My mother. His siblings. His children. But mostly, himself. He was an intelligent man who became something of a cautionary tale: how talent can wither under the weight of addiction. My family feared I would follow in his footsteps.…

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The Last Goodbye

There’s a certain silence that settles on you after watching a limited series about murder—not the kind that titillates or distracts, but one that lingers like a bruise on your spirit. This one told not just the story of the crime, but of the families left behind, trying to stitch together lives torn apart by a loss too brutal to make sense of. And in it, there was a scene I cannot forget. A…

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Grumpy

The song came on. Our song. “Tera mera pyar amar…” I looked at Keshav. He didn’t look up once. Mum says Keshav is lonely. But then, I’m lonely too—lonely even with two men in my life. They don’t talk. They don’t communicate. Even Arif, whom I thought would be a cuddler, turned out to be aloof in bed. Making love needs a time table now, making me feel completely unattractive.  Trust has…

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Pain

At this turn of fifty,the pain isn’t figurative —it is literal.It’s a corporeal manifestationof what used to bepoetic and tragic. Youth broke hearts,and feelings tore innards.The joke is that the heartstill breaks —and now it’s not just that pain:the shoulder, the knee, the heel. The validation of abstractionsinto the concrete.What divine irony. Mary Carson said it bestall those years…

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Sacrifice

I think of the pain in the world today. Somewhere, an animal is afraid. Its eyes wide, its breath shallow, its fate sealed by hands it cannot escape. I cannot see it. I feel it. And though I cannot stop every blade, I will not close my heart. Let this ache in my chest not drown me, but deepen me. Let me not be paralysed by what I cannot fix, but be guided by what I can love. Today, I…

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J. K. Umbridge

There was a time when J.K. Rowling’s stories brought magic to the margins. For queer children growing up with shame and silence, Harry Potter was a refuge—a space of chosen families, secret selves, and bravery in the face of oppression. It told us, you’re different, but you still belong. It’s no exaggeration to say that many of us who had no voice felt seen, at last, in the enchanted halls of…

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Support Structures

As I stand at the cusp of my fifties, I find myself reflecting on the arc of relationships that have shaped me: the people I’ve grown up with, the ones I’ve grown beside, those I’ve grown distant from, and those I continue to grow with. Most of them have been friends, some family, all deeply woven into the fabric of who I am. Because I’ve always loved with the entirety of myself. For the longest…

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Memorabilia

I’ve lived fifty years now. And lately, I find myself drifting gently—sometimes with longing, sometimes with quiet acceptance—into the soft interiors of my past. Rooms, trees, dogs, balconies. I don’t just remember—I love my past. It comes in flashes. Sitting in goodie Pua’s room, which once was mine. Me on the floor, a book in hand, staring out at a distant building, the same building I used to…

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Love Languages

There’s a peculiar kind of grief in being surrounded by people you love and yet feeling untouched — not emotionally, not intellectually, but physically. For those of us whose love language is physical affection, the need to be held, touched, kissed, cuddled — is not a luxury, it’s a lifeline. Without it, we don’t just feel lonely; we feel withered. I have always wanted to be held. Not just in…

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50

This Wednesday, I turn fifty. Fifty years on this planet. Five whole decades of living, loving, losing, and learning. It feels both like the blink of an eye and an eternity. I still remember that child. The little boy who used to come home with fifteen comic books from the library — Richie Rich and Archie comics tucked under one arm — rushing to the hall sofa, just in time for the setting sun…

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Style & Struggle

I’m not a rich man. I make do. But if there’s one thing I’ve always had in abundance, it’s a sense of style—and a longing to express myself through fashion. As a child, I was captivated by the elegance of those I saw on screen—actors, actresses, runway icons. In high school, I was utterly devoted to supermodels like Linda Evangelista, Cindy Crawford, Naomi Campbell. I hoarded magazines like…

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My Family’s Faith

In my family, religion has never been a matter of compulsion, inheritance, or rigid tradition. It has been a deeply personal and often private path—respected, explored, questioned, and above all, lived with empathy. We are a family not bound by sameness, but knitted together by love, resilience, and the shared grace of accepting each other as we are. The generation before mine taught me this…