In the quiet after Valentine’s Day, I turn inward—to books that shaped me, words that healed me, classrooms that defined me, long walks that strengthened me, tea with mother that grounds me, Olive’s unconditional love, simple food joys, and solitary pilgrimages. These are my sundry, steadfast forms of love.
This reflective essay explores how women are conditioned to equate love with waiting, suffering, and emotional neglect. Drawing from romantic culture and ancient Indian narratives, it argues for boundaries, dignity, and self-preservation. True love, it suggests, begins when a woman learns to choose herself over self-abandonment.
This piece reflects on how earlier generations learned respect and acceptance toward imperfect parents, without labeling them as toxic. Today, therapy culture and social media often encourage blame over balance. While boundaries matter, healing must also include accountability, maturity, and understanding parents as flawed humans doing their best.
This lively slice of life captures Bengalis’ dramatic love-hate bond with winter. From monkey caps, shawls, Boroline, and sunbathing rituals to indulgence in nolen gur, pithe-puli, fairs, picnics, and book festivals, Bengali winter becomes a season of warmth, food, adda, and culture.
On the eve of her child marriage, young Pakhi shares a tender kitchen moment with her widowed grandmother. Amid societal cruelty, love, longing, and survival lessons unfold through cooking. A forbidden fish head added to vegetables becomes an act of rebellion, awakening suppressed desires and silent tears.
This essay explores modern love anxiety shaped by WhatsApp blue ticks. Unlike the patient waits of love letters, today’s silence triggers insecurity, self-doubt, and overthinking—especially for women seeking reassurance. It urges readers to stop chasing replies, value consistency, and choose self-respect and peace over digital uncertainty.
This story weaves Bengali folklore and social wisdom through the legend of the Meccho Bhoot, a fish-hungry spirit said to haunt those carrying fish after dark. Beyond superstition, it reflects ancestral safety measures, warning communities against dangerous waters at night and preserving traditions through fear and respect.
Some books wait for the right moment—and then arrive like a storm. The Lion Women of Tehran is one such story: of friendship divided by class, of women stitched together by courage, and of freedoms we casually wear, while others fight, bleed, and rise—again and again.
Winter once knew how to knit. It arrived without spectacle, settling into afternoons, leaning against windows, making room for the quiet. And with it came
Bengali winters may be harsh, but they bloom with warmth through pithas, dudh pulis, nolen gur, and lively melas. Rooted in childhood memories, family rituals, and festive aromas, these seasonal delights turn cold days into celebrations of nostalgia, joy, and togetherness—comforting the heart long after winter fades.
