My Quill
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From a clay gullak opened at Diwali to a homemaker’s monthly fixed deposits, a banker’s reflection on what saving really means.
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October has walked in with a very shiny sun, and I’m missing the rain. Navratri outfits, a birthday on the way, and two books I’m reading just because I want to.
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Nine Bollywood movies with twins, from Ram Aur Shyam to Kaminey — double role classics, mistaken identities, and why Hindi cinema cannot let this trope go.
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At six the alarm ascends into a scream,
a banshee with a grudge against my dream.
I, who last night resolved to rise like light
lie pinned beneath the wreckage of the night.

One eye consents to open. Just the one.
It scans the ceiling, rules the morning.
So out my hand goes,
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Rain and waiting rooms, a cough that won’t quit, a small girl who doesn’t want to leave her bed — and a mother who is braver than she believes she is.
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For thirteen years, I knew exactly where I would be at 9:47 on a weekday morning — at my desk, second cup of chai going cold beside a stack of KYC files, the ceiling fan doing its slow, indifferent rounds above me. Banking teaches you many things. Punctuality. Precision. The particular dread of a month-end…
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A cancer diagnosis shakes the patient as well as their family to the core. With my mother’s diagnosis, we are devastated but we will fight.
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We moved to Mumbai at the beginning of monsoon season. The city arrived in my life already drenched — and slowly, through rain and books and Little Miss’s deeply held opinions about puddles, it is beginning to feel like home.
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This is a story of Priya and the first love shown in glances, smiles and Bollywood music.