Enough Already

So Virat Kohli got married to Anushka Sharma. Virat Kohli is the captain of the Indian cricket team and Anushka Sharma is one of the many, many,pretty faces in the Hindi film industry. Just in case you were wondering. To be honest, I didn’t see the hype. People get married. People have kids. People have more kids. People also get divorced. People get lip injections. People get boob jobs. I don’t understand why everything has to be dragged in the news for so long. It’s okay to be in the news. No, it’s not okay to take up permanent residence in the damn papers. The event happened, now move on.



Seriously. As if pre wedding videos and photo shoots weren’t enough, now we’ve managed to come up with more cringeworthy stuff to make my dead grandma squirm. It’s not funny. It’s not. Whoever thought that Virushka would be a great ship name was right. To me it sounds like a ship, all right. Or a missile. Of Russian origin. Aimed straight for the heads of several grooms-to-be. I’ve seen girls publicly whine about wanting their guys to be more like Virat Kohli. Like, really?

Fiancées are going to be demanding ridiculously expensive designer clothing and ridiculously pointless wedding venues because Anushka wore Sabyasachi and got married in Tuscany. Jesus. Enough already.

I kid you not, I’ve seen a million questions on the hangout section of PopXo – all from girls so obsessed with Virushka – asking other girls suggestions for their own ship names. Who does that? What are we, five? I can’t. I can’t. While I do believe in love and everything. And yes I do believe in nice weddings, I don’t believe in getting ahead of ourselves. Just clarifying so y’all don’t think I’m a bitter old Mother Dead Goose.

Celebrity is as celebrity does, yes I know, but people gotta draw the line at some point. Sheesh.


Tribute to T-Swizzle

I suppose we have Kimye to thank for Taylor Swift’s brand spanking new album, Reputation. And boy oh boy, does she kill it. Every album she’s come out with, she’s just gotten better. Who’d have known she’d revamp her sweet, demure country style to a badass pop queen and be so great at it?

As she turns twenty eight today, here’s a breakdown of a few of my favorite Tay Tay songs. And why they’re so special to me.

Love Story.

Can you believe this song is nearly ten years old?! The first time I heard it – I was in high school, overweight and dreaming of crushes (who are now all married to other people) – I thought I’d believe in love everyday only if it looked as fairy tale like, as depicted in the damn video. Ugh. Why is the video so perfect!? Her hair and clothes and makeup. Oh my oh my oh my.


I was well into college by the time this song came out in 2012 (I think) and I kid you not – I lived this song. All the breakfast at midnight bits. All the carefree drives to nowhere. All the friends I had. Sigh.

Safe and Sound.

Beautiful song. Such strong lyrics. In my opinion. Also, I was obsessed with the no makeup at all look on Taylor. She killed it, in my opinion. But then, when does she NOT kill it?

Shake it Off.

Not gonna lie, this song is something I still dance to in my room. In oversize tees and socks. It’s fun. Admit it. It’s fun!! Though I’m nowhere near as awkward as Taylor’s ballerina, but you know.

Blank Space.

I feel like this song was such a slap in all those haters’ faces because at this point Taylor actually portrayed a crazy woman in the video. I like a good clapback and this one has been a favorite of mine since it came out.

Look What You Made Me Do.

How can I not mention this one? Taylor killed all the old Taylors with this one. Not only did she look fierce, she threw some very obvious shade at the likes of Katy Perry and Kimye. Not really into the song much, because I like Ready for It and Gorgeous better, but the extravagant video is such a winner.

Happy Birthday, Taylor Swift!! Here’s to more Grammy awards, more ball bashing music and more tea spillage.

What’s your favorite Taylor Swift Song?

2017: The Year That Women Ruled

Getting straight to the point, 2017 was such a good year for women. There were so many women that showed the world there was nothing wrong with standing up for themselves, and that karma does exist. Now, getting straight to the point.

2017 gave us Wonder Woman, directed by a woman and starring an actual Wonder Woman. Gal Gadot – former beauty pageant contestant, funny woman and impressive military service under her belt to boot – gave us some major slayage. She’s gorgeous and oh-so-adorable. The rest of the DC multiverse may have nearly bitten the dust but Diana Prince is here to stay.

There was a time when sissy and simpering songs – sorry, no offence Britney, but no one wants to be anyone’s slave anymore – were the thing. NOT ANYMORE. Demi Lovato’s Sorry Not Sorry pretty much has been every girl’s ball-bashing theme song. Which goes to show that no, women aren’t going to take it lying down.

With the increasing popularity of androgynous fashion, shirt dresses and a lot of neutral colors and easy silhouette became synonymous with comfort. Gone were the mostly constricting pieces of clothing – for most women, being androgynous also meant giving zero fucks and being who they wanted to be.

2017 has been such a good year for makeup brands – specially the new ones like Rihanna’s Fenty beauty. She dropped a bomb when she released forty shades of foundation. Just so everyone felt included. Now many people might say that other brands were being copycats, but this actually gave other brands room to improve and grow and be a whole lot more inclusive of every skin tone than they ever had been before. Also, gone was the overly done face – only to be replaced by the au naturale, as women appreciated their natural beauty. Good thing we don’t have to pluck our brows anymore.

I feel like this post would be unfinished if I didn’t mention Manushi Chhillar, Miss world 2017, who’s actually from India. Woo hoo. While I strongly detest these sort of pageants, it’s kind of nice to see that a medical student actually bagged the crown. So yay!

Honorable mention:

Kylie Jenner for picking motherhood over celebrity fame and staying away from the spotlight as the little bundle grows.

Force Feeding

I know I rant a lot. I don’t really have anyone to talk to. I have NEET PG exam in January. And I know I won’t be cracking it.

For my fellow bloggers that don’t know what NEET PG is, oh how I envy you. It’s the competitive exam you take to get a seat in a college so you can do your residency. How am I so confident I won’t be getting a seat? It’s because I know my brains won’t be able to cope.

Now, typically like every brown father, mine thinks that I’m blessed with some Einstein level genius. When in fact, I have the brains of a squid that couldn’t escape and ended up being someone’s meal. Respect is such a major thing in our society. My father is a reputed (for a small town) ophthalmologist and I – his only child – couldn’t choose to study humanities because everyone expected me to study science, in high school. I was given no option. No say.

This went on. I knew I couldn’t escape the small town drama till I managed to get away.

So I said yes to going to med school in another small town 5000 kilometres away. It was my escape. My parents weren’t around to make me feel incompetent all day. I didn’t cry when they were leaving me behind because I was happy I wasn’t in a closed room anymore. Now back when I was in school – all through school, I wasn’t allowed to go out. Have friends over. I was overprotected and they over expected from me. At some point, I lost my humanity.

Anyway, med school got over. I don’t know how I managed. I wasn’t good at memorising stuff. I wasn’t the brightest daisy in the garden. I was invisible and happy to be so, because I wasn’t imprisoned anymore. But then I had to move back home ’cause a plain simple MBBS degree isn’t enough. You need an MD, at least. And now I’m being force fed again. 50 fat text books. Other course material. Dad won’t say good morning, no. Hell, every morning all he asks me is how much I’ve studied.

I can’t remember the last time I had a proper meal. Or how many cups of coffee I’ve had since I moved back home in November. I don’t want to be some MD. I want to travel all over the country, and pursue makeup artistry. Can I ever talk to my parents? No. Every time I try, it’s either a shouting match or radio silence.

I’m never going to be able to have a life. I wish I could pick some painless death but I’m cowardly. So all I’ll do is swallow the bile rising in my throat and keep trying at M.D. EVEN IF IT KILLS ME.

…because let’s be honest, what choice do I have?

Oh, Riverdale.

Without beating about the bushes this time, I’m going to talk about what the eff just happened on episode 21 of Riverdale.

This happened.

Sixteen year old high school student Betty Cooper dancing to Mad World from Donnie Dario had both me and my mum cringing real hard. I know it’s already a bad idea to watch your shows around your parents but I totally had to agree with my mum on what she said: “Isn’t sixteen awfully young for a stripper? Betty, don’t be that girl!” Okay my mum may have cussed a bit. Let’s not go there. She also blames my shows for my supposedly wild behaviour, but let’s not go there.

But, seriously, what the heck, Betty?!

While Lili Reinhart looked bloody gorgeous – it’s more than just inappropriate to have a high school student strip and do a bit of a pole dance to a very weird song, in front of a strange crowd comprising chiefly of drunk, middle aged men; and not to mention, your own mother. I feel like this show has thrown in a lot of inappropriate moments including how freely these kids seem to discuss underage sexual activity with their parents. I mean, I’m in my twenties and still can’t talk about it with my mother because it would lead to frying-pan induced injuries, a la Rapunzel.

Also, why does KJ Apa have to Zappa his shirt and go topless half the time. Yeah. We get it. You work on your body. Does NOT mean you go around without clothing on. I mean, haven’t you heard of pneumonia!? Episode 21 also had this weird moment when Archie, after being dumped by Veronica, stares at Betty (yes, he’s shirtless again) with a very creepy expression on his face. He friendzoned Betty. Way back when. Now if he tries to get into her pants and date her… oh boy.


Also, this show is beginning to totally suck. There’s no similarity between the comics and the show. Except maybe Archie’s hair color. I wish the producers would do something nice to keep the show afloat rather than just sexualising everything. These kids are sixteen year olds, for God’s sake.

Maybe the only thing that can save Riverdale right now is have Sabrina the teenage witch – from Greendale – on board, to work a little magic.


Who else has been disappointed by Riverdale? I know I can’t be the only one.

Why I Can Never Be a Food Blogger

There’s Noorain on here. Who manages to make even a half-eaten French fry look sexy. Her recipes are out of this world. And actually her photos probably don’t do her food justice. She’s a talented, beautiful, multitasking mother of two. Also an ex lawyer.

And then there’s me.

Where do I even begin?

There was a time I could produce yummy looking food, er… Ramen. But now? Even my instant noodle touch seems to have left me. There are kitchen disasters and then, there’s me. I manage to burn even the innocent boiled egg. Okay, maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration. But you do get what I’m trying to say, right?

My pancakes are never pretty. They are burned to death. My rotis are never round. They’re shaped like the map of the country, or maybe some weird amoeba. My toast? You wouldn’t wanna know. Ah, and don’t even get me started on the one time I tried baking a Nutella mug cake. Let’s just say that my microwave has been in shock ever since.

But a girl gets hungry, right? So she’s gotta cook something. Can’t really order in everyday.

So I decide to make myself some chicken tempura. I love chicken, see. It’s easy to cook. No muss, no fuss whatsoever. It’s delicious and juicy and yum. So I go get the ingredients, yeah? And in typical Sooch fashion, overdo the batter. I mean, it looked kind of pretty okay? With the soda and everything. Sigh. My mother never taught me the virtues of patience and calmness. I blame you so hard, Mum. So I cook one batch. Two baby pieces of chicken at one time. They turn out okay, surprisingly. So what to I do?

Dump the whole bowl at a go into the stupid wok.

Bad, bad idea. I need a ten foot long spatula or something when I’m cooking. Jesus H. Macy. No one ever emphasises enough on how much of a burn hazard every single kitchen episode is. And people that actually do it in the kitchen? People that enjoy cooking and make it look flawlessly easy? You guys have my standing ovation.

Also, when I take photos of my food, I sort of imagine them bitching about me to each other. Like, “Tomato, she’s gonna make the whole of our beautiful country of Salad look like cat puke.” “I swear, Lettuce, she does it every single damn time. Why won’t they sack her and get someone else? Why can’t she go torture Ice Cream? They seem like a bunch of fake sweet snobs!”

And so forth.

And this is why, my dear readers, I am not ever. Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever. Going to be a food blogger.

Just in case you were wondering about my tempura, it did turn out okay. Here’s a photo of my cooking, over filtered and amateurishly cropped. Enjoy.


It’s the wedding season. Actually, scratch that. It’s a full-blown, loud, in-your-face, tornado of a wedding season here. At least in India. Everyone is getting married. And if you’re not married yet, you’ll be hopping on board the Just Married wagon. Soon, I’m sure.

I don’t have any issues with people, and their extravagant and meaningless, overly and OBVIOUSLY, posed pre-wedding photo shoots. I don’t have issues with too much money being spent on designer clothing which you’d never wear again. I mean, it’s your (family) money and none of my business. I don’t have any issues with the terrible food that people insist on having on the wedding menu. I don’t have any issues with people insisting on gifting tea sets that would put Hokey to shame. I don’t know why I said that. I have no issues with anything remotely related to all of this.

The problem however, is when you’re a twenty something woman – single woman – attending your friends’ weddings. See, this is why I’ve been absent from photos on Facebook. I never did really hang around for fake ass paparazzi. Huh. Suddenly your education doesn’t seem enough. Suddenly they realise you’ve put on too much weight and need to be married immediately. Things like – “You’ve become so healthy*, beta, now no boy will want you.”

At this point I want to tell this stupid Aunty (we call every older woman ‘Aunty’ in India. Unless it needs to be ‘Grandmommy’.) that of course I don’t want a boy. What I do want at this point, is a man – so manly he shuts up all of you with his presence and his alpha male scent – who would literally bench press the lot of you in to extinction. And Hallelujah should you find one at this point. Just flaunt your alpha man like you’d flaunt a Maserati. Or something. I know I’m objectifying Jason Momoa here, but come on. Aunties need shutting up.

When you’re not healthy, Aunties manage to dig up some other issue. What do I get the most? “Beta, how old are you again?” JEEEZ. Can’t I fucking go to one wedding without being character analysed by other women? Oh no no no. Just because I’m the rare one of the unmarried-in-the-mid-twenties-female, I’ll be targeted like you’d target a hornet’s nest. How to take down a hornet’s nest without hurting thyself 101. Never mind what happened to the damn hornet. Never mind the hornet is now homeless. Sigh. I swear, I’ve had it till here.

Now I don’t want my poor boyfriend to bear the brunt. Nor do I want to torture him into listening to Aunties talk about healthy women.

Which is why – every time someone asks me about when I’m getting hitched and all that crap – I say “I’m meeting a boy!” Don’t think however, that it stops there. They’ll come back to you asking for follow up details. Sigh.

Which is why you need to have a story ready. My current favourite? “Ooh, yes his parents specially LOVED my healthy weight. Since the airplanes can still carry my weight, we are doing a destination wedding in Bali. Heh heh. The lehenga you say? Oh, it’s Sabyasachi! Ooh and Mario Dedivanovic is doing my makeup! Oh yes, hair too…” (I’ll leave out the actual embarrassing details of what did happen. That no parents came to see me yet. That there’s no lehenga. Sigh. They don’t need to know.)

I’ve noticed they all shut up at this point.

*Healthy, in the Urban Aunty dictionary, refers to FAT. I’m not kidding.

To my poor boyfriend, I love you very much. Forever. May our love survive the Aunty Attack.