There is a yellow fountain pen that lives on my desk. A Sailor. I bought it in an airport. Saw the colour. Felt the nib. That was that. No deliberation. Just recognition. I use it only for my journal. Which means I use it only for myself. A few times
I have been thinking a lot about stillness lately. Not the kind that comes from a good night's sleep or a quiet Sunday. The other kind. The kind the mystics write about. The kind that sits beneath the noise of everything — the arguments, the ambitions, the WhatsApp notifications.
We are all still on the road. We tell ourselves we will go when we are ready. When we have something worthy to bring. When the torn sandals are replaced and the bundle is less embarrassing and we have figured out, at least a little, how to explain where we
Claude knows more than me. By a million miles. It can clone everything except who I am right now — confused, surprised, mid-thought, unresolved. This is not a complaint. It is the last remaining advantage. We spent decades being told to arrive. The finished self was the goal. The polished surface.
I collect things. Not seriously. Not with the discipline of someone who knows what they are doing. But with the particular weakness of a person who cannot walk past an old thing without wanting to know where it has been. The older the better. The more damaged, the more interesting.
Every time I pass through an airport I buy a book. Sometimes two. I do not always read them. My shelf is full of these purchases — spines uncracked, pages unturned, each one a small act of faith in a future version of myself. The one who will be on holiday
I first walked into the Taj Mahal Hotel lobby at roughly knee-height, in a pink sweater my mother had buttoned to the top, small pearls sewn all over it. Delhi in December. The tree alone was taller than our house. Lights everywhere — cold white and warm gold, climbing the columns,
Brilliant ideas, like truffles, are rare. And only possible given special conditions. Nobody knows who said this. The quote has been passed around long enough to lose its origin. Which feels appropriate — a brilliant idea whose source has quietly disappeared. Shweta and I were walking on the beach. She was
Benedict Cumberbatch sits casually in his big tan leather chair. But nothing quite casual about it. A man in a black coat walks in. The eyes move — not dramatically, not obviously. Just a quiet, continuous intake. The cat hair on the sleeve. The tobacco stain. The slight hesitation before the
April, 2000. Worli, Mumbai. I had been gunning for this job for years. Actually, not the job — the boss. Meenakshi Madhvani finally gave me a break. One condition: keep the client, keep the job. Lose the client, lose everything. First presentation. I decide to wear a saree. I want to
Pallavi sends me a reel. A gentleman explains three types of love through three women — Paro, Kunti, Parvati. It's elegant. Well-intentioned. And it irritates me in that specific way that things do when they are almost right but missing the point entirely. Each woman is measured by what
A friend gave me a gift last week — a box of postcards. One hundred classic covers of Vanity Fair magazine. She handed it to me with the kind of smile that says: this is so you. I laughed. Because she's right. If I'd seen it in