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An Unwelcome Return

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I sat cross-legged at the top of Mount Kailash, deep in meditation. The cool snow beneath me helped me focus, its sterile scent mingling with the smell of wet soil carried from a rushing stream somewhere in the distance. Around me, snow stretched across the mountains, untouched except for the occasional movement of wind across its surface. I could hear it whispering against the rocks before disappearing into the valley below. Vasuki’s smooth scales felt like warm metal resting against my neck, his body curled comfortably around my shoulders as it had been for longer than either of us cared to remember. My stillness kept the balance of the world. Even with my eyes closed, I could sense the movements of mortals, the rise and fall of the oceans, the forests growing and burning, and the countless little lives moving across the Earth. There was nothing unusual. Nothing that demanded my attention. I inhaled deeply, letting the familiar scents of snow and wet soil settle my mind, and sank fur...
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Of all the Places in New York, I Choose Taylor

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The board in the lobby of Madame Tussauds told me that the music zone of the museum was on the fifth floor. Little did I know that we had to get past all the other attractions and groups of celebrities to make it there. I thought the anticipation might be the death of me. As I made my way through the floors, getting closer and closer to her , my heart rate increased infinitesimally. Sure, the other figurines were eye-catching, but there was one in particular that I was here for. The music zone was as bright as Times Square on New Year’s Eve. As the marketing description for the museum says, “Every day is New Year’s Eve at Madame Tussauds.” It certainly looked like it. Flashy billboards covered the walls, and poised around the room were figures of the people who had changed the music world. Visitors posed with and smiled at the statues, as if they were real-life people. My eyes zeroed in on a 5’10” tall woman with straight blonde hair, bangs above her eyebrows, and iconic red lipstick. ...
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After the Hour

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Disclaimer: This is a continuation/ adaptation of “The Story of an Hour” by Kate Chopin. You can find the link to the text here. The Story of an Hour   I’m working from the line “Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.” “I should like to identify the body,” she whispered. “Why, Mrs. Mallard, women do not see the dead. It is unheard of,” said Richards. “He is my husband. I have seen him in all states. I believe I have more of a right that you, who is merely his colleague.” Mrs. Mallard waved her hand, dismissing Richards. She clutched her nightgown with one hand and wound the other around her sister’s waist. “Josephine, I shall not ask you to come with me-” “-But I will not leave you to go alone.” The two sisters descended to the streets and walked towards the mortuary, where Mr. Mallard’s body would be. Josephine stopped at the entrance. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Mrs. Mallard nodded and let go of her sister. She entered the building. The men in the room stopped wha...
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Not Every Platform Is an Invitation

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The other day, someone DM'd me on LinkedIn. At first, I thought it was someone looking to create a genuine professional connection, because I have received connections like that before. However, this person decided to ask me if I was married. When I told him that this was LinkedIn, not a dating app, he said, ‘this is a private chat, right?’ LinkedIn is supposed to be a place where people can make connections that could help them further their career. People list their qualifications and share their professional achievements, hoping someone will boost their career. Somewhere in the middle of that, someone decided that my relationship status was a legitimate way to start a conversation. Why should a professional connection be treated as a romantic opening? Apparently, the fact that he was messaging me privately was reason enough to disregard the context in which we had connected. But a private message doesn’t change the purpose of the platform, nor does it automatically make a person...
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Who Wins the Love Triangle

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In recent years, love triangles have been all the rage. The most popular ones are from The Vampire Diaries, ACOTAR, My Life with the Walter Boys, The Summer I Turned Pretty, Twilight, Never Have I Ever, XO Kitty, and Ginny and Georgia . Love triangles are popular because they act as an amazing point of conflict that helps drive the plot forward. They turn intimate emotional conflicts into high-stakes public drama. However, what I want to look at is who really wins and how it happens. All over social media, there are polls and posts about which of the boys in these triangles are better. Even though The Vampire Diaries is over a decade old, there are still people asking, ‘Are you team Damon or Stefan?’ As new stories pop up, these questions arise again and again. Many times, people choose the ‘bad brother.’ They choose the one who’s troubled and sad. They choose the man who needs fixing, the one who asks for them and fights for them. (I have a whole other article about this interesting p...
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Someone I can Call

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When I call Gavin, there’s a good chance he will be sitting at a juice shop, with a cigarette in his hand. I don’t know why this is the image that comes to mind whenever I think of him, but it is. Maybe because he is almost always there when I call. Maybe because I have called him enough times for the image to become familiar. He usually answers with “sollu maaa.” (Tell me, ma). It’s an invitation to say anything I want to. Was something wrong? Did I have something I needed to say? Did I just want to chat? It’s such an ordinary thing to say, but I don’t think he realises how much comfort I have found in hearing it. Gavin is a friend’s older brother. I’ve known him for about a year, perhaps a little less, but I don’t remember a time when I had to work particularly hard to become comfortable around him. I was shy at first, as I usually am with people I don’t know well, but he was familiar in a way I hadn’t expected. He was nice to me; he spoke to me, and somewhere along the way, he becam...
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They Sounded the Same

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“Ahhh!” I screamed as I saw something jumping out of the corner of the bathroom. My mom rushed in. “It’s a frog,” she pointed out. “Calm down.” My first thought was that a frog would never be in my bathroom in Connecticut. Last night, I’d walked out of the airport, stepping onto Chennai soil. ‘There’s no going back now,’ I thought. Before we got on the plane in New York, my dad asked us to wave goodbye. “We aren’t going to come back here,” he said. Being ten years old, that felt very final. No one told me I’d start sweating buckets as soon as I stepped out of the air-conditioned airport. Next to me, my five-year-old sister wrinkled her nose. She was bundled up in a pink sweater, wearing a purple backpack. “Ewww. What’s that smell?” “It’s the sewage smell,” my dad informed me as he hailed a taxi. The only welcome we got from Chennai was a suffocating hug from the April heat. I had a house in Chennai, but it wasn’t set up yet. My parents built it in the early days of their marriage. Toni...
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Teaching Love Through Monsters

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What kind of books are we giving young readers? My class and I had a long discussion today about the kinds of things that young readers are reading these days. Around and after COVID, the genre of dark romance became extremely popular. One book, published around 2021 and still widely spoken about today, is Haunting Adeline . What's so special about it, though? Why do readers flock towards it like flies to honey? There is non-consensual sex, pretty much rape. There are graphic descriptions of that rape. There are things like trafficking, abuse, stalking, and basically other things that you would probably put a man in jail for doing to you in real life. And yet this book is extremely popular, with readers starting as young as fifteen, despite the trigger warning that appears at the beginning. It is important here to think about how influential writers can be on their readers, especially when those readers are young. A fifteen-year-old who reads this book is not necessarily going to i...
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Challenge Things

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The idea of challenging something can be an amazing place to start writing from.  A few days ago, I wrote a post about where you can get ideas from to write. This one is something that a visiting author, Anjum Hasan, who's here to conduct a workshop, said.  As reading for the workshop, she gave us a couple of short stories and excerpts from longer books. All of them seemed to be addressing caste issues. She told us that it was unintentional, but that it was an underlying tension and problem in Indian society. Unknowingly, all the pieces she gave us were about class, hierarchy, and caste divisions - and of course, their repercussions.  That's when she told us that these writers are writing about this issue to challenge it. She told us that if we are looking for inspiration to write about, we should think about what bothers us. What do we hate and want to change? If we think long and hard, we'd be able to find something that really speaks to us, that has been on our mind fo...
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Why are all heroes’ parents dead?

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Parents have to die for the hero to flourish. That is a pretty strange line. But think about it. Batman. Iron Man. Spider-Man. Harry Potter. Some of the most popular heroes’ journeys start with a loss they have never asked for. Their childhoods are interrupted and somewhere in the wreckage, the hero is born. Bruce Wayne does not become Batman because Gotham needs him. He becomes Batman because, as a child, he watches his parents die in front of him. Tony Stark does not become Iron Man simply because he is a genius with a fancy suit. It takes his kidnapping, his near-death experience, and the realisation that the weapons his family business produces are hurting people for him to finally change direction. Peter Parker learns that “with great power comes great responsibility” only after Uncle Ben is gone. That pattern is so consistent it’s kind of suspicious. In these stories, parents seem to be important sacrifices. They need to be taken away before the protagonist can become extraordina...
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The Fat Cat

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Today I attended an exclusive workshop about the art of storytelling by Geeta Ramanujam. She’s the founder of Kathalaya, a storytelling movement across India. She started her day with a story-like introduction of herself. One story wove into another and never bored us. After that, she made us introduce ourselves with a story about ourselves. Then, we settled in to listen to more stories, including a folk tale that we were part of reciting. By that I mean we reacted to the song-story, which formed a part of the folktale itself. Our big activity of the day was to work in teams to create our own little story using the elements we had talked about throughout the day. We had four words based on which we had to make and perform our story. The ones my team had were laborious, light, cat, and happy. Here’s what we came up with… Once upon a time, there was a fat fat cat. He was so fat, he could hardly be considered a cat anymore. One day, a bright light appeared in front of the cat. From it app...
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What’s so Great About Watching A Re-Release?

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I just went to Avengers: Endgame and absolutely adored it, even though I knew everything that was going to happen – except the end credits. As I watched and saw the theatre full, I wondered why this happened. It’s not just about this movie, but a lot of Tamil movies that were re-released were also received with equal energy and enthusiasm. One reason I came up with was that it might be because of the fact that it’s familiar. There are no jump scares. There isn’t going to be something unusual or unexpected. Usually, the movies that come back are years old. This lets the audience walk down memory lane, and it takes them back to who they were when the movie was first released. It’s comforting to know exactly what’s going to happen. You know the dialogues, when the villain is going to appear, when and where the hero will make his grand entrance. You know which joke is coming too. There’s no nail-biting anxiety because you know what’s going to happen. You can sit back and enjoy. These movie...
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Safety is a Right

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Yesterday, I had to take a bus home at night. I had to take an auto (tuk-tuk) to the bus station. I, too, like many women out there, had to call a friend and ask him to stay on the call until I reached the bus stop. It was a small little thing that has honestly become normalized today. Women do it unconsciously, hoping that it will help them stay safe. But I did think of this. In light of the Cornell 7 tragedy and a bunch of similar things happening in India, my Instagram feed has been full of tragedies. There are countless posts telling women how to stay safe: stay alert, don't walk alone at night, share your location, call someone while travelling, keep your keys between your fingers, carry pepper spray, watch your surroundings, don't trust strangers. And, of course, women should be taught to protect themselves. Our daughters should know how to recognise danger. They should know what to do when something feels wrong. They should be aware of their surroundings and have the con...
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Come on, you should try it

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At the core of my being, I’m just a girl who loves being with her brothers. However, the question is whether or not they like being with me. One thing that brought us together years ago was my brother’s love for Chilli Parotta. When I moved back from the United States, my cousin brother’s family and mine used to go out for lunch a lot. One day, my brother decided he wanted to go to Saravana Bhavan, which was my first inkling that something interesting was going to happen, for my brother usually preferred chicken and this restaurant was purely vegetarian. When we got there, he asked me if I wanted Chilli Parotta. At first, I gave him a confused look. I wondered why he wanted to give me something with ‘chilli’ in the name when he knew I had a very low spice tolerance. “Come on, you should try it,” he urged. I hesitated for a moment. But being a little girl who idolized her brother, who had five years more life experience than I did, I said yes. When it arrived, reddish-orange and steamin...
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Where do our Stories Come From?

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We often applaud our epics and think they are the most original and unique things to ever exist. However, if you look at them, they actually have similar elements. Let's look at three case studies: the Ramayana , the Mahabharata , and Homer's Iliad . First of all, all three of these stories are about a central war. There's the war that Rama and the Vanaras wage against Ravana, the Kurukshetra War between the Kauravas and Pandavas, and the Trojan War. All these wars are entangled with women - Sita, Draupadi, and Helen. (They're fought by men who think that a woman needs saving - for those of you feminists out there.) Something happened to these women: Sita was kidnapped, Draupadi was dishonored, and Helen was taken to Troy from her husband. (People just can't leave these women alone.) These women aren't mistreated in the same way, but what happens to them becomes entangled with the men's war. Secondly, there's an interesting similarity between Achilles an...
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A Little More Magical

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For as long as I can remember, some part of me knew I was destined to be a writer. You might wonder why a small child would think that. The answer is pretty simple. My name means writing. As a child who grew up hearing that, I realized that it was something important and that it was something that kind of belonged to me. My first memory of writing was back in the first grade. I had an activity in class to write a very short story, with illustrations. It was supposed to be a retelling of any classic well-known story. We were given simple white board books, blank canvases that we could turn into anything we wanted. I decided to rewrite the story of the three little pigs. I called it, The Three Little Fish. It was set underwater. I don’t remember much about it, but that was the first time I saw my name on the cover of a book, proudly lining the bottom of the front cover. I remember feeling a sense of fierce pride. This was something I had created and no one could take it away from me. I g...
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An Era of Our Own

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Taylor Swift didn’t bring the Eras Tour to India, but the Swifties brought it into the theatres in Chennai. I knew I was in the right theatre before I even reached the screen. There were girls in sequined dresses, friendship bracelets stacked around their wrists, and flashes of glitter wherever I looked. Some had dressed for specific Taylor Swift eras; others had simply arrived wearing whatever made them feel like a Swiftie. People were greeting friends, comparing bracelets, taking photographs and talking excitedly about the songs they were about to hear. It was November 3, 2023, and I had come to the theatre to watch Taylor Swift: The Eras Tour, the concert film documenting Swift’s record-breaking tour. I had expected a cinema. What I walked into felt much closer to a concert venue. When the concert film arrived in Indian theatres, it brought with it more than two hours of Taylor Swift performing songs from almost two decades of her career. It also brought friendship bracelets, glitte...
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Metaphors for Translation

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So other professions find it kind of easy to describe their professions. Like a doctor, engineer, or teacher can sum it up in one or two sentences. However, a translator finds it hard to do the same. In today’s translation workshop, we looked at a few metaphors to explain the art of translating, and I wanted to talk about my favorites. The first one is about a bridge connecting two places. Both places are well populated and have dozens of little houses. There are lots of people on the bridge. So here, the bridge is the connector between two languages, doing the job of a translator. Additionally, all the people in the houses speak different languages, which represent the languages a translator often juggles with. The second one is an orchestra. Okay, so there are multiple different ways of interpreting this one. Firstly, the musicians are the ones interpreting the text - the sheet music. They all see the same things (their source language), and they interpret or translate it in their ow...
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Why Riordan?

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For my college project, the author I chose to study is Rick Riordan. (You probably guessed that from my posts.) Today, I was asked why I chose this author. Riordan was someone my brother gave me. When I came to India for a vacation, I wanted something to read when I was at his house. He gave me The Son of Neptune . I was around eight years old, and I tried to read the book. I couldn’t get past the first few chapters, and it made no sense to me. I tried it again a few days later and had the same result. I put the book away, and for the next two years, I claimed I didn’t like Percy Jackson. That’s a strange thing to think for someone who’s now writing multiple assignments on this author. A couple of years later, my brother handed me another book. This was The Lightning Thief. I told him that I didn’t really get Riordan and wasn’t interested in reading. He told me to try it again, and because I respected my brother, I did as I was told. I picked it up, settled into the couch, and haven’t ...
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The Gods Have A Coffee Shop

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My shift was finally over. Another long day of sitting at the same drab desk in the lobby of the Empire State Building, watching people come and go. You’re probably wondering what was so hard about that. My main job was keeping people away from Zeus. He had threatened to blast me out of the building for letting people up to the ‘six hundredth floor’ without an appointment. Yes. THAT Zeus. The one who often grew 100 feet tall and had a gigantic lightning bolt packed with enough nuclear energy to level a mountain and still have some to spare. Mortals didn’t know the six hundredth floor existed, but demigods did. The last time I let one of them up, he summoned me to his throne room. “If one more demigod enters Olympus without my permission, I’ll blast you off the top of the Empire State myself.” He had said it while holding a lightning bolt, so I believed him. I dusted off my dark blue suit and matching trousers, stood up, and stretched until something in my back made a noise that probabl...
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