THY ELOQUENCE

 The story of Indian fashion traverses millennia, one marked by the interplay of power, identity, and resistance. At the heart of this story, the medium of cloth has woven itself into the tapestry of Indian civilization to serve not only as a form of adornment but also as a tool of political maneuvering and cultural assertion. Prestige was already attached to cloth in the Indus Valley Civilization around 2500 BCE. Archaeological finds of fine cotton fabrics reveal that weaving was not just a craft but a social status; mastery over thread symbolized mastery over community and trade. As empires flourished, textiles became an emblem of political might. This integration of fabric and power found its zenith during the Mughal Empire, wherein textiles were, in fact, the very language of majesty. Silks embroidered with gold and silver thread, intricate brocades, and luminous muslins were crafted not merely to please the eye but to claim sovereignty. A robe from Akbar's court could speak to...

What if the trend we’re following is the death of real listening? Am I listening because I love it, or because everyone else does? There’s this strange silence I feel when I scroll through Spotify playlists these days — like déjà vu on loop. Everyone’s “On Repeat” looks the same: Travis Scott, Seedhe Maut, The Weeknd, maybe AP Dhillon or Drake to keep it “vibe certified.” It’s not that I don’t like them — I do. I’ve rapped along to “Highest in the Room” at 2 a.m. and screamed Seedhe Maut’s “Nanchaku” and “Hola Amigo” in the metro with my friends. But sometimes, when the loud noise fades and the reels stop scrolling, I left with a strange silence. A SILENCE that asks, is this really me Somewhere between algorithm-curated playlists and “What are you listening to these days?” small talk, I lost the real essence of me. Because deep down, my real playlist doesn’t live on the Explore page. It lives in Rahat Fateh Ali Khan’s voice when he sings “O Re Piya,” in Lata Mangeshkar’s tremble that f...

Yesterday, while wandering through old memories tucked between pages of old albums I stumbled upon a photograph of myself... Wrapped in oversized colourful dupattas and lots of innocence. I looked like a tiny dreamer trying to be a fashion icon in my own little universe. At first i thought - oh! That silly younger me , but then something made me pause. A gentle thought whispered in my mind -WHAT REALLY IS FASHION? Is it just about following the world? Or showing the world who you are. Is it just the clothes we wear? Or the language through which we express ourselves. Is it just following the trend? Or discovering one's style, embracing beauty in every shape and shade.             "It's childhood spark in frill and bows,               A confidence that quietly grows              A mirror of soul inside,              When shy heart learn to walk with pride...

If I had a penny for every time I heard someone say in the past few years, “Man, they don’t make movies like they used to”, I’d have enough cash to bribe Bollywood into making one decent script. It’s a natural rite of passage for the older generation to haughtily disapprove of anything the youth come up with. We’ve all grown up witnessing Bhide from Taarak Mehta ka Oolta Chashmah’s holier-than-thou “ Humare zamaane mein… . (translated to: back in my day…)” that earned him more jibes than respect. But what’s peculiar now is the rising trend of even the youngsters distancing themselves from the contemporary media — identifying themselves with tags such as an “old soul” and clinging to things that belong inherently to other generations. In an age where every brand, product, and story is tailor-made for the youth, how has the industry managed to fumble so gloriously that their very demographic wants to renounce itself from it? Cinema, of course, has taken a major hit. You can’t have a ...

Once upon a time, someone sneezed before leaving home. On another day, someone else sneezed before someone else was leaving. Both met with such legendary misfortune that an entire generation decided sneezing before departure was bad luck — for you, for them, for everyone within earshot. Nobody remembers what exactly went wrong that day, only that ever since, we’ve been holding our breath before stepping out. In our society, of which’s norms and rules I learnt while growing up, has a lot of rules that you are not told of, but you are definitely scolded for not adhering to them. If I have to tell you some, they are: You cannot cut your nails on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays; don’t sweep after dark; avoid walking under the ladders, breaking mirrors, or opening umbrellas indoors; and please keep an eye out for black cats. Maybe some poor soul did all that on the same day and had a terrible week and that was enough for the elders to consider these actions cursed forever. Weird enough ho...

  • Chaar log I have always hoped the afterlife doesn't come with any rituals or laws. No restrictions, no permissions and no "Chaar log kya kahenge" Maybe then Sohni would finally meet her Mahiwal. The Chenab river would no longer exist. The earthen pot would no longer exist. The boundaries would fade. And there would be only one thing visible more than ever – Love . Their gaze wouldn't have to break. Their hands wouldn't have to separate. Their souls wouldn't detach. • Jeete jee yaar us paar hai Mauth mein tum aur main dono ek hai In life– Love remains out of reach. Far away on the opposite shore, with the river in between. A river that's built of rules, of customs. A river whose waves scream the names that the world gives us. But the pot must melt. And no, it isn't defeat. It's the first step of being one, of being whole. In death– You are me, I am you. Our souls tied together with the thread of fate, The thread which no longer remains tangled ...

The page stares back at me, white and wide. Unforgiving. It looks like peace until you try to write on it - then the silence is too loud to bear. I hover my pen above it, waiting for the first word to flow out like a miracle, something tries to stop me. The page says, “Go on.” I say, “I can’t.” Who’s holding this weight on me? It’s only paper - but it feels heavier than I do .    As I close my notebook a soft voice begins to speak, “ You’re afraid of me, aren’t you? ” I get up and try to walk away, the voice follows. “You come to me when you need to fill me with your impossible dreams, you hide from me when you need the truth.” I open the notebook again, the page waits patiently this time. “I’m trying”, I say. It replies “Then stop trying, start listening.” So I listen. As the pen hovers again, I hear the sound of an untold story trying to stretch its way out. The one that hides between thoughts I never finish saying. The dreams I left half-drawn, quiet truths I never dared t...