I’m here. I’m watching you. You may not know it, but I always am. Lurking. Mostly invisible, but definitely lurking. You would be scared if you knew. 

I’ve seen everything. Right from the spare pizza keychain in your glove compartment to the mole on your Adam’s apple. I can tell which shoes are your favorite. I’d know the scent of your skin anywhere. It’s hardwired into my system. I know the way your eyes sparkle when you talk about her, I know when your eyebrows would shoot up in the middle of a conversation. I know when you’d clear your throat and when you’d change topics. You’re like clockwork. 

I can see you now, even when you’re not around, playing that stupid game you play online and yell profanities at the other dudes. I can tell when you’d pick up the phone to call me and maybe ask me to hang out. Telepathy. We have a connection, I’m not even playing tricks here. 

I can tell because no matter what I do, you’d always come back to me. It’s like, you’re drawn to me. Maybe it’s your Stockholm Syndrome kicking in. Or maybe it’s all in my wildest dreams. 

Being Bengali

Of course I had to put this post up. It’s pujo season. Technically, the end of pujo season. But whatever, right? Tradition calls for new clothes, visiting the pandals (marquees that house the – usually clay – effigies of Goddess Durga and her kids. And her enemy dude. And their unusual pets) and midnight biriyani. This year, I did neither of that. 

My parents and my cousin came over to visit, and well let’s just say it wasn’t pretty. It mad me reflect a LOT on what being Bengali truly means. Like a lot, a lot. 

For starters, Bengali women are bitchy as hell. In case you’re wondering what the actual badooshes, hello what is yours truly doing here? Yep, bitching. Bengali woman, bitching. Put two and two together, can you. 

The men are sissies. They shy away from successful women, and prefer to birdwatch instead of going out and maybe getting hold of the bird. 

There’s no middle ground, we all have OCDs of some or the other sort. 

Then there are these loud conversations. If my parents are talking about faulty drainpipes in Tanzania, chances are people in the yellow house three blocks away have heard it all and are totally predicting what the next day debate will be about. And it’s not even as interesting as the presidential debate. 

Here comes the worst part. 

We look good, okay? We have eyeballs like boiled eggs that make you go awww. But when you lead us on, and leave our butts cranky, well bad news brother because Mamata Banerjee will personally get involved. I’m kidding. 

In other news, I’m depressed again, which is why I haven’t posted anything in a long time. What I did these four days was just wear a crapton of makeup and take selfies for Instagram, instead. False advertising right there. I lead a sad, vegetable life and you don’t want to be my friend, trust me. 

Four days of pooja. 

Okay, now. Enough of rambling. Happy Dusshera everyone. Please send me good vibes. 


Don’t say anything, if you’ve got nothing to say. 

Just make sure you don’t give her false hope.

Don’t call her everyday, pretending everything is okay, don’t light a fire that’s not even real. 

Just don’t start a flame, if you’ve never wanted to stay. 

Don’t be sweet, don’t be whatever it is you are, don’t encourage her, if all you want is someone to entertain you. 

Just don’t act like a paramour. 

Don’t ask her stuff you’re gonna forget about the next instant, if you aren’t in it for the long run. 

Just don’t feed her lies. 

Don’t act like you know better, if all you’re gonna do is try to change her as a person. 

Just don’t hang around. 

Don’t lead her on. 

Just don’t. 


Working in a remote area with loads of patients, and very few doctors can be a pain in the neck. Coupled with the constant worry of not having enough medical supplies, the whole doctor thing gets messy. 

We basically take turns, and often miss meals because well, bulaava aaya. We all know I loathe group texts, and people in general – but when you get added to a workplace based whatsapp group, there’s no getting out. You’re supposed to cover for the other doctors when they are on leave because if you don’t, nobody will give you a break when you need one. What a crapload of a mess to be in. 

All of this is making me kind of apathetic. I don’t feel a thing. Except exhaustion. I’ve failed at relationships, been called out for being an opportunist, a pathogen and a slew of other names, and I don’t want to have a failed career too. I just want to be my own person, my own everything just so I can afford my life, and if that makes me look bad – so be it. I’m doing okay, I guess. 

Patients are cute. I get to see a lot of babies, a constant reminder that I’ll be a toxic mother so I should just refrain from the whole attachment thing. Seriously, don’t date MY kind. My kind don’t feel, we’re machines meant to serve the sick. And we won’t complain when you keep misunderstanding us. 

Such is life. 


Ain’t it funny how no matter what you do, no matter how hard you try to get rid of certain memories, they insist on staying right there in the back of your head because you can even put on a certain dress without going back to thinking, damn this dress and why did he pick it for me and then all the other thoughts come flooding back in right from the moment it all started to the very end where it turned into something bitter and putrid and you can’t even remember how and when it ever felt good, like why did I ever fall in love with someone that took over my whole life and why the heck can’t I move on, because you know full well there’s no future and things have always been doomed from the start and all you ever really wanted was one nice date, and that you weren’t an opportunist or a player or anything and how much you wished he’d understand your job and that one of you had to stay happy and life sucks balls so bad it’s like a slew of stab wounds that don’t heal and you wonder why you let your defences wear away and why did you get so fragile, and when and why you let someone else take control of you, because you were meant to be in the driver seat, not him, not his mother and not religion and why can’t you just sit in your happy corner and just live a bit, why?

I Did Him Wrong. 

I once had the good fortune of dating a guy who was working on a start up for quite a while. Good guy. Great sense of humor, great grammar, great personality. I didn’t understand him, I didn’t. 

Not that I didn’t try. 

I didn’t know what you’re supposed to say to someone with passion that Michelangelo would have been jealous of. This person would work hours into the night, creating a logo. He didn’t have a functional company, but at least he had the idea, all he wanted to do was start a business, and be his own boss. He had too many ideas I didn’t understand. 

We couldn’t have been more different. 

He was passionate, and me, lacklustre. Where he was driven and had his own ideas, I was okay with being told what to do. We were chalk and cheese. He wasn’t actively making money, and when he said he was working, I secretly felt weird because he didn’t have an “actual job” or even office space! I was mad he lived with his parents at the ripe age of 34, and there were times I wished he would slog like I did. 

Office job, nine to five, salaries, soulless coffee. 

I think I was kind of jealous of him. He was his own boss, and happy and positive. And I was a bitter person with way too many complaints about life. I guess I was unhappy being forced into working for someone and being dependent on a boss who would dole out money – while he was happy despite his company’s failure to launch for three whole years. 

He never lost hope, even when I would go ranting about the age gap. What did I do? I gave up. The worst thing I could possibly do. 


So I’m working with a bunch of amazing people – all of whom don’t believe I’m the girl in my instagram feed (like Hello. Have you even heard of the “power of makeup”? A YouTuber made a whole palette out of it.) And I get to work with BABIES AGAIN! 


I can’t even. Just look at the cheeks! 

JUST how are kids cheeks’ so chubby! Anyway. So we also had this one kid come in with congenital glaucoma and corneal opacity, basically something that won’t let him see unless surgery was done. I kind of wish my Dad was there to do it for free. Because the doctors at the hospital I work in aren’t ever gonna do anything unless you shell out moolah. Go figure. 

This isn’t a very bloggy post or anything, I just wanted to say hey and check in, because I haven’t been blogging much lately. I do hope you’re all doing great! 

Did y’all see the new iPhone seven and Apple’s decision to drop the jack? The ear bud things are teensy, and if you lose them, replacing them is gonna be a pain in the derierrie. Good thing I’m very low techy techy and I am not fussed about phones. 

Also, did anyone buy it yet? Let me know!