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Backspace to 2016

Backspace to 2016 Ever since we ushered in 2026, we have observed, with no small curiosity, that digital culture has transported us back to the year 2016. This return is visible across social media platforms, in popular music, in visual aesthetics, and in our online habits of self-expression. References to 2016 now appear frequently in captions, in videos, in playlists, and in visual styles, often accompanied by the gentle insistence that life, the internet, or culture felt ‘better’ or perhaps ‘simpler’ during that period. While such claims may readily be dismissed as nostalgia or generational sentimentality, the consistency and scale of this return suggest that it is rooted in deeper cultural and structural shifts rather than merely in individual longing. It coincides with significant changes in how digital platforms operate and in what they now expect of those who inhabit them. Since 2016, social media has undergone an extensive transformation, marked by intensified algorithmic contr...
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Flying into the Past

  Flying into the past   As the cool raindrops mixed with warm sweat trickled down my brow, the shuttle came flying towards me and I missed it again!  The sun had set, the fluorescent bulbs lit the front of the building, and the six of us were playing a lousy yet competitive game of ‘building’ or ‘gully’ badminton. The shuttle swept more than it flew, and on the few rare occasions of a ‘good shot’, the opponent missed it due to the slippery tile floor of the building front, wet from the continuous drizzle. The miss would happen in a rather idiotically epic manner by slipping or twisting and turning themselves at weird angles, which made everybody crack up. Sometimes, one was so lost in the breeze and rain that they would not realise the shuttle was heading towards them until it was too late. The expression of confusion, followed by the urgency to hit the shot, made them look so funny that it set all the spectators into hysterics.  We played more with the roof penetra...
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Alone, Together

Alone, Together That morning started like any other, but with an extra dose of irritation. I didn't have a holiday on Anant Chaturdashi, which, to me, felt completely unfair. I left home in a bad mood, half-asleep, half-complaining in my head. I expected the streets to be quiet, the trains to be empty, and the whole city to feel paused for the festival. But when I reached the station, it was far from silent. The platform was buzzing with life; vendors calling out, trains screeching in and out, people walking fast, cups of chai being passed around. For a moment, I just stood there, confused. How could so many people be out and about on a day like this? Didn’t anyone else want to stay home? Didn’t they also wish for a break? But then I looked around properly—at students clutching their bags, office-goers with weary eyes, a man selling flowers for the day’s rituals, an old woman quietly eating breakfast on a bench; and it hit me. Everyone was living their own little version of this mo...
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The Doors Of Pondicherry

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The Doors Of Pondicherry  In Pondicherry, the doors and streets are not merely wood and concrete, but stories and poems painted with bright colours and history. The former stand at the corner of almost every street, adorned in vibrant hues of yellow, white, and coral blue, humming their own rhythms and narrating their own stories. I walked through these French streets with my camera dangling from my neck, a map in one hand and a cup of melting gelato in the other, collecting their colours and silences like seashells. Some doors were coral blue, like the waves crashing on the rocks at the beach, while some were yellow like the petals of a sunflower. But every time I tried to click a picture, something inside me hesitated. How could I capture something that seemed to mirror me? The doors of Pondicherry do that sometimes - they stare back at you, unblinking, as if they know all the stories you’ve brought along with you; all the weight you’ve carried on your shoulders, and the amount o...
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2025 'Wrapped'

  2025 ‘Wrapped’ Put a pretty bow, a couple of party-popping animations and a glowing number on the landing page of an app, and you’ve got the recipe for quantifying and gamifying digital consumption. We, as a generation, are sticking a number on all the wrong things, just for a hit of success. Apps we use congratulate us on how much we use them, and we, faithful servants as always, fall right into the rat’s trap.  These numbers, when shared (for example, Spotify stats) then stand to pit users against each other. Some listeners even try year-round to ensure that their end-of-the-year Spotify stats reflect a niche, unique taste. The more the hours-listened, the more superior you get as a consumer. All this while, companies and creators sit back and watch, probably laughing at us. From Spotify (where it all began) to Linkedin to even Uber, almost every app we use has now begun to show its users their yearly stats, congratulating them on the amount of times they used its services...
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There are More Christmases in Bombay Besides the Bandra Christmas!

  There are More Christmases in Bombay Besides the Bandra Christmas! I know we’re all going to throw hands if we come across one more “Hidden Gem in Bandra” reel. But all things considered, the charm of a ‘Bandra Christmas’ is undeniable. The maximalist wonderland of Candies, the cosy winding streets of Ranwar, the glistening archways of Reclamation. However, it’s all fun and games till you’re photo-bombing a stranger with every step you take, or till you’re inches away from a car running over your foot. So, even as I have enjoyed the holiday spirit in Bandra (pro tip: go before Christmas day and in the afternoon), I must talk about why it is overrated.  Everything is a spectacle today, or has to be one to garner any attention in the throes of content on social media. We rarely go to places without the Internet recommending them, and this fosters a need to beat the FOMO by getting to these ‘Instagrammable’ spots (the fact that the word is a known adjective is concerning in its...
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The Girl He Thought He Killed

  The Girl He Thought He Killed Every truth is tainted with a spot of lie. I told them I didn't do it. That was true—I didn't. But did I want to? Yes. I wanted to watch every ounce of life seep from his eyes. I wanted him to know, with every fibre of his being, that his time was over.  Did I want to hear his cries for mercy? Yes. Did I want to watch him turn into nothing? Yes. I wanted him to plead for his life the way I had—to feel the white-hot pain I felt when he left me broken, wounded, lying on the cold ground to die. I wanted every nerve in his body to ignite with suffering, just like mine did when his sharp knife cut through my stomach.  He thought I was dead. That I would be an incident he could tuck away. But little did he know that the shattered girl he left that day had learned how to put her pieces back together.  He didn’t know the voice he thought he’d buried would echo in his last moments. However, vengeance isn't me, I tell myself—justice is.  Ye...
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