I’m Going to Be Vulnerable

 I’m going to be vulnerable.

Not poetic.
Not filtered.
Just honest.

I am at my heaviest weight and biggest size.
And it’s not a surprise. It’s the result of many silent choices, many unspoken moments, many meals I didn’t need—but took anyway.

Because I let go.
Because I am a food addict.
And because food doesn’t just sit on my plate—it talks to me.

The Lie That Keeps Me Stuck

The worst thing food says?

“Nothing will happen if you eat this.”

But something does happen. Every time.

A little more guilt. A little more heaviness.
Another notch of self-loathing.
Another promise broken.

Food becomes my comfort, my punishment, my distraction, my silence.

And Then Comes the Fear

There’s something darker behind the eating. Something I don’t always say out loud.

I am scared I will become my mother. Or my aunt.
Women I loved—who struggled with weight, illness, and confinement.
Women whose lives became smaller as their bodies grew heavier, sicker, stuck.

I am terrified that one day, I will not be able to get out of bed.
That I will be bedridden, helpless, dependent.

No. Way.

I will not go down that road.
I will not let food chain me to a future I dread.

Yes, genetics has played a role.
Yes, menopause hasn’t helped.
But I know the truth in my bones: I have helped this sickness too.

Through neglect.
Through fear.
Through numbing myself instead of feeling fully.

I Want to Change Without Shame

I don’t want to change because I hate myself.
I want to change because I want to live.

I don’t want to crash diet or chase size charts.
I want to walk.
To breathe.
To return to myself.

Starting with 20 minutes a day.
Not to punish myself.
But to begin again.
To mark a shift—from silence to movement, from guilt to presence.

Maybe I’ll walk an hour one day.
Maybe I won’t.

But I will show up.

I’m Not a Before or After. I’m a During.

This isn’t a “journey post.”
This is a confession.
This is a commitment.

To myself.
To my future.
To my body, not as a battleground, but as a home I want to return to

If you’ve heard food whisper to you too—
If you’ve feared becoming someone you once cared for—
If you’re carrying the weight of shame and stories—
Know this: You are not alone. And it’s not too late.

Come walk with me. Let’s write a new ending.

Not a good week for women!

This has been a devastating week.

A week that lays bare the brutal truth:
That in parts of our world, being a daughter, being a woman—especially an unmarried one—is still dangerous, and to top that, choosing a path not sanctioned by family is a dangerous one. 

Two lives.
Humaira Asghar and Radhika Yadav.
Both young. Both full of promise.
Both chose to live a work life based on their talent and ability. 
And both punished—for being free.

One died in September 24 months her death was discovered only recently.
The other shot in her own kitchen by the man who raised her.

Their crime? They lived on their own terms. 

Humaira Asghar: A Woman Who Chose Her Own Life—and Was Left to Die Alone

Humaira Asghar was a young Pakistani woman who dared to step into the spotlight. She chose to become an actor—a choice still seen in some parts of society as shameful, as dishonourable, as "too much."

She made her own decisions. She followed her passion. She lived independently.

And for that, she was ostracised.

In September 2024, she seems to have had the last connection with anyone. No one came looking. Her family had already cut her off. When her body was finally found—nine months later, decomposed and alone—her father and brother refused to claim her or give her a proper burial.

It’s still unclear how she died. But what’s painfully clear is this:

She died without her family,

She was buried by strangers

She was ostracised in life and death.

Radhika Yadav: Shot by Her Father for Succeeding

24-year-old Radhika Yadav was a tennis coach, a budding player, a YouTuber—and the pride of many. But not, it seems, of her father.

She supported the family financially. She was strong, skilled, and self-made.

And that threatened him.

When neighbours mocked him—“You live off your daughter?”—his fragile masculinity shattered. Instead of owning his pride in her, he chose violence.

He came home, waited until Radhika was cooking, her back turned, and shot her dead.

A betrayal inside the home.
A punishment for being successful.
A life taken not in the heat of the moment, but with quiet, chilling intent.

This wasn’t just murder. This was honour killing, fed by ego, fuelled by a culture that teaches men that a daughter's light should never outshine their own.

When Women Choose Themselves, They Are Still at Risk

Neither Humaira nor Radhika were “asking for it.”
They were simply being—alive, visible, self-driven.

But in a society where:

• Independence is read as rebellion,

• Ambition is seen as arrogance,

• And success is seen as a threat—
  Women are punished.

Especially if they are unmarried.
Especially if they don’t “belong” to a man—father, husband, or brother.

This Is Not Just Personal. It’s Political.

These deaths aren’t private family tragedies.
They are symptoms of a larger, rotting system.

Where a woman choosing her profession is shameful.
Where a daughter earning money is emasculating.
Where male egos are protected more fiercely than female lives.

Radhika’s death was fast and loud.
Humaira’s was silent and slow.
But both were surrounded by the same cruelty:
A refusal to let women live on their own terms.

We Must Speak Their Names

Humaira Asghar.
Radhika Yadav.

long lost friend news

When i saw thw AIR India passenger's list..i saw your name..but did not really think of you. How could i... we met last nearly 10 years ago...But to hear it was you...what was sad ..is sadder...cannot stop thinking of what the kids.. and Dak! Rest, RH! 

...and just like that

And just like that

I saw the truth in the moment

gone were the summer days,

i wrote poems of love 

gone were the songs 

gone was the yearning

my heart filled 

with unspoken emotion

their eyes - walls 

you can do your best

yet, it is only you

who holds your hand 

only that!

Review - Sharmishte

Many years ago, may be in the year 2000, I had the blessed opportunity to work with Dr Umashree. What an actor. She played Sharmishte, and I was Chitralekhe in Karnad ji's Yayati. We travelled around Karnataka performing the play. It was a great class on prepping for a show, being a star. I was in awe. 

Sankula covered it. I was surprised to be on the cover page. Pappa bought nearly 10 copies to send to people. 

We had travelled all around Karnataka especially North Karnataka in a small van, and we had to bunk in dorms, were invited by the Panchayat president and met the heads of the company theatre. One night, Umashree avaru took me to watch a company play. Company plays are done by local touring groups, have melodramatic stories lines and very exaggerated in form. 

The lead usually dresses as a successful film star, and this day he was dressed as Dr Rajkumar. The play began at baout 10 pm and went on till about 1 am. It was about a jilted love story. The backdrops are on canvas and painted, and they scroll up and down to show scene changes. 

Company nataka sets are usually huge painted backdrops. 

I was able to see and meet the actors after the play, thanks to Umashree ji. She had almost become a care taker of mine, in that time. She was a very kind, and helpful person. Even later, when I worked with her, the feeling was the same. 

So, I was really happy to see her on stage. I did not meet her this time as she was back stage, and an actor gets mobbed when they exit, and I did not want to be a part of that mob. 

Akshara V, Daksha, Arun Murthy and I stood at the Rajatadri palace as she exited the building, and it was just mobbed. This is all because of Dr Umashree. She is so special as an actor. 

and now we come to Sharmishte

The daughter of a Rakshasa king, beautiful, kind, haunting, faithful - who befriends Devyani - the proud, demanding daughter of Shukracharya. Sharmishte bears many insults from Devyani, silently, humourously and in one weak moment retaliates. This becomes her undoing. She is now forever to be a slave - a princess slave to Devyani - who is married off to Yayati. 

Yayati has children with Devyani, but he also falls in love with Sharmishte, and marries her in secret, and has 3 children with her. Devyani who does not know who the father of Sharmishte's children are, continues to insult her. One day when she finds out, she goes to her father - Shukracharya - who curses Yayati with old age, and loss of youth. 

Yayati pleads with Shukracharya to release him of this curse, and he only relents to say if he can get any of his sons to exchange his age with them, then he can be youthful. 

His sons with Devyani dont want that life. But his son with Sharmishte exchanges his life and youth with his father. Puru, who is newely married to Chiralekhe gives his youth to his father. Chitralekhe who sees this takes her life. 

Yayati comes to realise his folly and chooses to go to vanaparasta. 

This rendition of the play was a solo performance by Dr Umashree. While it was a thrill to see her, I did not like the play. The treatment was weak at best. The ending was dismal. It was a directorial thing. How could Sharmishte in the end accept to go with Devyani to the forest to live with Yayati. Sharmiste seems to have lost her spine, he inner strength. 

It was clear that in the directorial and dramaturgy team there was no woman involved, who could say anything to affect and impact the plot. 

But, hey, I got to see Dr. Umashree on stage - even though I hoped for better. 

Sunday at the theatre - 1

With Gundanna and Gauri Dattu at Ranga Shankara. 

The enlightened Badiger Sir! 

my room

There is something about the safety of your room, your ritual, your space. It is the room, where I can peel out all of my layers, all of the masks, my headgear, my ties, be in my skin - comfortable, safe.