Dear Chennai Super Kings


We have a problem. A real one. People think the ones sitting at home, wanting to watch the match and hoping the match goes on don’t get it. But we do.

There are people in my state who spent their year’s earning on new crops. The money will go to waste if they can’t harvest it and while the banks may give hundreds of crores to someone who can leave the country, our farmers can’t get bank loans as easily. So they need the water. And they need it NOW.

But problems like these are the reason why we elect our government. You have to understand that the government now ruling my state wasn’t elected by us. The woman we elected has passed away and the current party is incapable of handling a situation even though the warning signs showed up three days ahead.

What so many have forgotten is, those elected or unelected officials sitting in ruling positions aren’t named Dhoni, Bravo, Billings or Jadeja. You are cricket players. You play for our country. You stay away from your family, or even worse, have them travel the world with you while you represent us. And during the IPL season, you come closer to home because you represent US. My city. My home. We have waited two years to see you back in the yellow jerseys. You did not deserve to be treated that way.

I can tell you a hundred other ways they could’ve handled this. They could’ve even showed up at the stadium with banners that held their protests while still cheering you on. They could’ve peacefully protested while letting you get on the bus and go to Chepauk with pride that CSK is back! As a marketer, I can think of a lot of things that they could’ve done instead.

But as a human being, I’m sorry.

I say ‘they’ because I hope you know, the man who threw a shoe at Jadeja doesn’t represent who this city is.

The people who tried to run behind your bus aren’t who we Chennai-ites are.

We’re warm. We welcome everyone from anywhere with open arms to create their homes here. We’re the city that rolls up their pants and says, “Let’s make our home liveable again,” when disaster strikes. We’re loving to a fault.

And I’m sure you know this, but I hope the 10th of April hasn’t taken away the memories we, you and my city, have created together for years. Thank you for still winning that match and not letting the hooligans get to you.

The people who rallied against you don’t represent us. I can tell you who they represent but what’s the point?!

I don’t know how you feel about the matches being moved to Pune. I feel bittersweet. You deserved a better homecoming. I’m sorry we couldn’t give it to you. I’m happy they can’t use you for their political gains anymore.

I hope you still want to come back next year. I hope when you think of us, you think of the ones who got so excited for you to be back. The ones with IPL schedules written in yellow stuck to the back of their closet doors. The ones who showed up to that stadium, knowing they could be hit at any given moment because they wanted to show you their support.

I hope, when you think of us, you remember the Chennai that loves you.

Because we do.

I Don’t Believe In Women’s Day

Screen Shot 2018-03-08 at 12.13.41 PM.pngI’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.

If you’ve wished me, I’ll wish you back because you believe in it and I won’t ruin it for you. But I will not buy into the facade that you’ve dedicated an entire day for me when the remaining 364 days of the year, I have to walk around afraid of what label you’re about to give me.

“Celebrating women, their beauty and their strength!” – Forward message of the day. Really?! How? How are you celebrating our beauty and our strength? By whistling at us? By winking at us? By grabbing us? By making kissing faces at us as we walk to our car in broad daylight with our father less than two feet away? By telling us children aren’t a choice? By judging us for not being married? By labelling us for dating? By relating the respect we deserve to the number of times our vagina has been touched?

You’re right. Not all men do this. But almost all women go through it. So good for you that you’re not all bad. But there’s enough of you to ensure we’re ALL suffering from the perverseness and your belief that you have the right to choose for me.

To choose my career – when it begins, when it ends, how far I go, how much money I make,
To choose my marriage – who I marry, when I marry, how big my wedding is, how long the wedding lasts,
To choose my role as a parent – if I can be a working mom, if I can be a full-time mom, if I can be the only parent who gives a fuck and changes diapers, IF I WANT TO BE A MOM,
To choose what I want done to my body – if I want to get tattoos on it, if I want piercings on it, if I want you to touch it, if I want you to admire it, if I want you to take pictures of it, if I want you to fuck it,

You believe you have the right to choose it all for me.

So where, in all of this, are you celebrating me?

From the moment I wake up until I fall asleep, I have to watch what I eat, how I look, how I smell, how I laugh, how I stand, how I sit – because you can’t keep your eyes, your hands, your words, your thoughts and your penis to yourself.

But hey! I have a day to celebrate me!

And it’s not just the men. Women label each other, too. Sometimes, we can be the worst kind of hypocrites. She’d show up at her house past midnight every night but, “Hey! Did you know that other girl’s out late every night? Someone’s a little slut!”

If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard a woman bitch about another, I’d be buying myself that Rolex right now.

Because having the latest gossip gives you street-cred. Knowing who is currently sleeping with whom makes you the talk-of-the-town. Because sometimes, the only way to get attention for yourself is to focus on someone else’s life.

The truth may be a hard pill to swallow. But if you can’t relate to the above, you’re probably the one doing it.

I mean, it’s so nice to sit at your favourite restaurant on a pleasant day with your best friend, updating each other on your other friends’ lives, isn’t it? “Oh she gained so much weight,” comes so naturally. That’s not bitching. That’s updating. Right?

But is it?

Remind yourselves of your conversations with this person. Have you ever mocked someone? Have you ever talked ill about someone?

Newsflash: If you’re an adult, chances are your best friend has another best friend and if she’s bitching about her to you, she’s bitching about you to her. Doesn’t feel good, does it? To know that you’re being spoken about? Yeah, I thought so.

It’s the year 2018. I’m a 25-year-old afraid to speak her mind, afraid to wear what I want, afraid to hold my boyfriend’s hand in public, afraid to show up home late, afraid to post pictures of alcohol, afraid to walk outside once it’s dark, afraid to scream at that asshole driver and afraid to live my life without watching every little thing I do. Because I’m not just afraid of the men and their minds and their hands.

I’m afraid of both the genders. Because being violated physically is horrifying but that doesn’t mean gossiping about me and saying mean things behind my back while calling yourself a friend to my face is great.

You feel like celebrating Women’s Day?

Then do it the right way.

Teach your children (and yourself, if necessary) the freedom of choice. Not the freedom for you to choose for me. But MY freedom for ME to make MY OWN CHOICES.

For something as simple as being able to wear my favourite pair of shorts without having to worry about what man is looking, what man’s going to corner me on the street, what he’s going to say, what face he’s going to make or if he’s going to come touch me against my wishes. And without having to wonder if at that moment you’re looking at me and smiling, you’re also texting your other best friend – fat-shaming, name-calling and mocking me.

Until then, I’m calling this day what it is…




Who do you remember when you think of me?

Do you remember the girl who laughed with her head thrown back? The one who looked at you from the space between her fingers as she covered her blushing face? The one who pressed her nose to yours and scrunched her forehead?

Do you remember the girl who couldn’t share food? The one who needs that extra spoon of sugar? The one who can never eat enough?

Do you remember the girl who’d hug you at random? The one who’d hold your hand until the door opened? The one whose face lit up when you walked in?

Do you remember the girl insanely in love with you? Or the mess, sitting on the floor, head between my knees, sobbing uncontrollably?

Do you remember me at all?

Because I remember you.

When we talk about coffee, I remember your jokes about decaf.

When someone says movies, I remember the ones we watched.

When I pick up my first book, I remember your words.

When “Spiderman” plays on TV, I remember that little boy you healed.

When I read the word love, I remember how you said it to me.

How you showed it to me. Every minute of every day. And I smile wide. Until suddenly, I don’t.

Because I remember when you stopped.

I remember when your hand made my face hurt, not happy.

I remember when your words brought pain, not peace.

I remember when I was afraid of you, not in awe.

And I remember when we became you and me.

It all comes flooding to me. Like it was only yesterday. Like you have just walked away.

And I have to remind myself that in the end, I’m okay.

That I have no reason to cry.

That the pain need not exist anymore.

But that’s the problem with all the things we wish we’d forget.

Their reality hurt once.

Their memories haunt forever.



Inspired by Kavipriya Moorthy’s “How do I look like in your memories?”

Feminism Isn’t Just A Word


When I was employed, I was getting paid what I thought was a significant amount of money. But then they hired a man who was working under my supervision but got paid more than I did. “Experience” they called it then. He was new to the industry. His experience wasn’t in the same field. But I thought it acceptable until I found myself in the same position, switching careers and still getting paid less.

I’m quoting that as an example because I want you to know, I understand the word feminism. It’s not JUST about the pay gap. Like I said, it’s an example. And I couldn’t be more happier to live in a time where #MeToo has happened and voices are being heard louder than ever and women are being acknowledged, not dismissed.

But does everyone truly understand the word Feminism?

I know a whole lot of feminists who understand that word and who I look up to for various reasons including this. But then comes the bunch. The bunch that this blog is about.

I’m not a submissive person. I can’t “Yes, Sir” to anyone at any moment in my life. This might even become the death of me. But I like it when the man I’m dating is the “Man” in our relationship. I like it when he makes the final call. “Take my words into consideration and make a good choice.” I’m okay with this. Actually, I’d choose this. I’d rather not be burdened with it all.

I dated a very emotionally unstable man for a significant period of time. I dealt with his mood swings and was there when he needed me and waited to be needed again when he threw me away. I understood why he acted that way and I understood what he needed from me. I made the choice to stay. Given the chance to do it all over again, I’d still choose the same.

I can’t stand up for myself. I’m terribly shy and anxious in a confrontational situation. I’d rather text my emotions than talk them. I don’t like being hated and I definitely do not like it when someone is mad at me. I’d choose to apologize for their fault because that’s one less person who holds negative emotions towards me.

I like having a career. I want to make a lot of money. I don’t like the idea of depending on anyone else for my needs (parents excluded). But if I ever need to stay-at-home for my kids and depend on my husband, I’d do it without second thought. It would be the most obvious choice to me. I may not enjoy it all the time, but I wouldn’t regret it at all.

Which of these above factors make me a non-feminist?

Because isn’t that a major point of everything that’s happening right now? GIVING WOMEN THE RIGHT TO CHOOSE? The choice to marry. The choice to earn. The choice to fuck. The choice of clothes. EQUALITY & CHOICE. Allowing me to choose what I want without being ridiculed or looked down upon for it?

And if I want to choose to be a “homemaker” or a “submissive” or an emotional punching bag to a very disturbed man, isn’t that my choice?

Women, not all but the many I’ve come across, have this textbook definition for being a feminist – Independent – Financially and Emotionally, Unforgiving, Strong and if you go by Jyothika’s version – wears Aviators and climbs on lorries. But I’m none of those things. I’m independent to a point but I like needing him when I’m miserable. I like that he can say, “Hello” and my world is okay again. I like forgiving people even when they’re not apologising. I like being a little weak and wearing my heart on my sleeve, even if I know the other person is an asshole.

We are struggling so hard to get men to treat us as equals. But some of us forget that in that need, we’re taking away the choice from ourselves. We need to be united to get to where we need to be. But we’re squabbling on the inside because we don’t all understand what we’re even fighting for. To so many, it’s a label that makes them relevant. “I’m a feminist,” is something that makes them a part of the conversation. But what’s the point if you don’t understand what the conversation even is?

She can be a feminist and a housewife. She can be a feminist and in a shitty relationship. She can be a feminist and a stay-at-home mom. She can be a feminist and absolutely emotionally weak. She can be a feminist and extremely apologetic. SHE CAN BE A FEMINIST AND STILL BE HERSELF.

Because Feminism isn’t just a word. It isn’t just a label. It’s very real and very important.  And to those who got it right the first time, good for you and thank you!

To those who constantly pick on other women with, “Please! You don’t get to call yourself a feminist!” – Seriously, go take a class and educate yourself while the rest of us fight the battles for you.


The Stranger In A Helmet


To the stranger in a helmet,
The one I can’t forget
Not for the romantic reasons, no.
If that were the case, I’d start with dear.
You’re anything but my hero.
You’re my worst fears come true.

I drive by thay street everyday,
I’m left no choice, I live two streets down.
And every time I see that corner,
The one you stood on, your bike parked, your gaze wandering,
I look around.
I try to spot every man holding a helmet, perched on a bike.
I wonder if it’s you.
If he remembers me.
If he’d say it again in broad daylight.
Does he know?
Does he know what he did?
Does he know why he shouldn’t have?
Does he know I still hear his voice in the back of my head and feel a chill run down my spine?
“Madam. Madam.” Every time?
Does he know that he hid in the dark, his face covered because his instinct told him it was wrong?
Does he know I’m judging him when it maybe wasn’t him at all?
Because I do.
Every man I see looks guilty.
Even the innocent.
That’s what you’ve done.
“Madam. Madam..” like a helpless man. I shouldn’t have turned.
Should’ve known you’re helping yourself.
But I was taught and raised to be nice to the lost.
Yet, as you stood,
Your hands on your pants, your mouth asking for mine,
I was glad it was me and my little sister had walked a few feet.
Imagine a table turned.
For being taught kindness,
She won’t judge that innocent man,
She’d fear.
Because of you.

How difficult life would be.
As long as she lives, she’ll never trust.
Afraid of eyes, even the ones filled with love.
Yet, how easy it will be,
For you’ll forever live in peace.
Hidden behind a helmet
At 7pm, in the middle of the city
On a lonely street.
Just your voice echoing, “Suck me please.”



There seems to be a misunderstanding of this word. Violation.

What is it really? When Aziz Ansari asked her to blow him and she did with consent without being “forced” into it, was it violation? When you walk into your date’s house knowing it was for sex but he’s not giving you foreplay and is instead shoving his fingers down your throat, is it violation? Or when you say, “I don’t want you to touch me,” in those explicit words and he still tries to grab you, making you panic and your blood pump with adrenaline to escape, is THAT violation?

I’ve talked about being groped in public, by old men, tailors and fellow pedestrians on this blog. I’ve mentioned how I go through them everyday like so many of us do and how it’s not okay. I’ve written an entire post about how we internalise it when we should be pointing fingers at men who feel like they’re entitled to the body of every woman they see. But there’s a story I never shared.

It’s not just on this blog. There are only three people in my life who know this story. Me. The guy. And my boyfriend. I trusted him. I’d known him a few years. We’d hung out a lot. We briefly tried to “date” if you know what I mean. Yes, I’d given him permission then. But eventually we both moved to another country (the same one) and I met my now best friend who began to like him. Seeing how I never really had any emotions towards this man, I stepped back and gave them a chance to try having a relationship. He was dating my best friend so we remained friends and when they broke up, we tried to keep our peace without raising hell or having to choose sides. At this point, I’d outgrown him. I didn’t feel like being with him anymore because I’d come to see him as my best friend’s man. It wasn’t right. It didn’t feel right.

But then one day, he called. He said he wanted to hang out with me because he felt very depressed with something that was going on in his life. I told him in these exact words, “This is to hang out as friends. I don’t want you to touch me. At all. Yes?” And he agreed. When I walked into his apartment, he reached out for a hug and I repeated myself even more elaborately. I explained my reason and he told me he understood and he was just depressed. For those of you questioning my choices, you have to remind yourself, I’d known this guy for almost 5 years at this point. I trusted him. I’d hung out with him. He dated my best friend. We’d shared a lot of stories. He was an asshole, I wouldn’t deny it but he’d treated me like a friend and I was never given a reason to question his loyalty. Until then.

I forgot all about this, you know? It was one of those moments I pushed to the back of my head hoping I’d never have to remember it again. Because who wants to think of a time like this? I ignored it. I blocked him on all social media and slowly, I’d blocked the memory from my mind. Three years later, he added me on Snapchat. He sent me a PM, “Hey!” I didn’t respond. I distracted myself hoping I’d never have to think of it again. Because thinking meant remembering. And remembering meant reliving. And I would give everything to never relive those minutes again.

But this past November my brother got married. And this man went to school with him. So he reached out to me again, “Are you coming to the reception? I’ll be there!” I didn’t respond but my nerves tightened and my heart began beating faster.

The last time I saw his face was when I was running into the elevator and he’d ran out of his apartment screaming my name. I had to tell someone. But how would I explain to my conservative parents that I walked into a guy’s apartment alone, willingly? So I told the only person I could trust. I told my boyfriend.

“He was my friend. He went to our school. He was one year your senior and two years mine. We used to do shit but it all stopped when he began dating her. But then he called me one day and told me he was depressed and wanted to hang out. I went because I trusted him. Once inside he tried to hold me and I moved away and told him to watch it. He brought us drinks and I refused. Alarm bells kept going off and I told him I couldn’t stay long. He kept grabbing me from behind and I told him if he doesn’t stop, I would leave right then. But then he grabbed me again, this time so hard, I couldn’t break free. I struggled and he tried to dry hump me from behind. Adrenaline kicked in. I broke free and ran for my life. I hit that elevator button over and over hoping it would get there before he does. He got back on his feet and came running screaming my name just as I got in and left. He’s coming and I don’t want to see him. I’m anxious.”

Because I was violated. And it wasn’t okay.

It was just my luck that he didn’t turn up at the event after all. My brother said he has legal issues and I thanked my lucky stars. But the pandora box had been opened and I haven’t been able to shut it since. With stories like the one Grace shared, I feel more pissed off than I do peace.

Violation has no said definition. It is a feeling. But it is not willingly blowing him even though you weren’t turned on. It is not willingly going back to his arms, hoping to be cuddled after feeling like you were forced. It is not willingly staying in the name of starstruck and remembering it publicly a while later.

Violation is a feeling deep in your bones. It gives you chills of fear and anxiety. It gives you adrenaline. It is like being blindfolded in a haunted house that’s dark anyway. You can pull off the blindfold but you’d still be stuck. Violation is that emotion you feel once and never forget.

#MeToo is important for people like me. I could never publicly point to him. He outdoes me in social status, money and connections. My society will turn back to me and ask me why I went. No explanation would suffice. To throw stones at it without realising its need and significance is immature and, yes, reckless.

I was violated.

And I take offence to anyone who uses that word lightly.

Including Grace.


The BIG, The FAT & The SEXY


I know what you’re thinking – “Oh! Another post about how it’s okay to be fat!” You’re kind of right. But it’s something else too. We’re going to talk about me. If you can relate to what I’m saying, welcome to the club.

We’ve talked about this and we continue to talk about this. Especially at a time where I’m being asked to consider marriage and my weight is a problem to address if I need a decent man.

I always want to ask them, “So if I get married and gain weight again, it gives him the right to leave me? Like what’s this facade? I’m fat. Let him marry a fat woman because he likes her, not because she’s temporarily different looking to attract him. That’s wrong!”

I, of course, get a, “You’re acting stupid, Poornima. This isn’t the way to talk. Start walking and cut that junk food. Enough of this.”

But I’m so confused. My mother is fat. She wasn’t at 25. She is at 50. She looks at thin women and goes, “Ooh! Look at her. I wish I could look like her. I’ll never be skinny again.” That is not a problem. I get where she’s coming from. I understand why she’s feeling that longing. But what confuses me is how she and so many others I know presume I feel the same way.

I’m 25. I’ve been fat since the day I was born. I’ve lost weight temporarily at several points in my lifetime. But it hasn’t lasted and I don’t really mind. I have a big ass and big boobs that makes skirts and crop tops fit weird on me. I also have a lot of flabs and I wouldn’t advise anyone to buy me fitted t-shirts. I’m not what the “industry” would call “fat and fit.” I’m fat. That’s all there is to it.

And I want to ask you, the reader and the world – Who told you that is ugly? Why is fat ugly? I know what you’re thinking. “The only person who says things like this is a fat person!” But honestly, who said it? What makes you think that every fat person looks in the mirror and picks at themselves? That we all wish we could be skinny and fit?

I looked at myself in the mirror two days ago after I’d showered. I had my underwear on.  I thought to myself, “Damn. That’s a good colour on me. My ass looks so sexy in this underwear too! I wish he could see how I look right now. He’d love it so much.” It’s not the first time I’ve done it either. Whether it’s dresses or night clothes, I’ve had so many moments where I’ve looked at myself and felt utterly hot and sexy. Yep. I’m fat. I find myself sexy. Let’s give out a round of applause for all the naysayers who think I’m lying to convince myself. My parents think it, too! So, go on. I’ll wait.

You done? Great. Glad you’ve got that out of your system.

For the longest time, I’ve felt comfortable in my skin. Every time I gain those few extra pounds, I look in the mirror and I see it. I know where I’ve gained it because my dresses don’t fit there anymore. But I don’t pick at it. I don’t pull my skin. I don’t feel like harming myself in any manner.  And somehow, that’s not acceptable!

I have questioned how healthy I am. Loved ones use that word to get you to lose weight. “I just want you to be healthier!” Such bullshit. I stopped being fooled by those sugarcoated “Lose weight” statements years ago. But I did ask myself if my health is okay. So, this past summer, I went hiking. Wichita Mountains, Oklahoma. I watched as friends opted out at different levels while I went up until the last but one – Someone had to pull the person for the last step because of its steepness and my lecturer didn’t think he could pull me. (Not blaming him. Just saying.)

I’m healthy. I can walk. I’ve run to catch buses. I’ve hiked. I’ve trekked 2 miles at a time. I’m not invalid because I’m carrying more fat content than the next person. But somehow this argument gets me nowhere. People just shrug and go, “Still! You should consider getting healthier!” Seriously, SAY WHAAAT?

Are you that person? You look in the mirror every morning and you see ugly? Fat? You find flaws on your body? “Ew. A flab!” So you walk out and you see people ten times as heavy as you are and you think to yourself, “How do they live with themselves? They should stop eating! I bet she feels insecure. Well, she should do something!” And sometimes, you even feel the need to give that person what according to you is that little encouragement they need – “You should join a gym or walk. Try hot water with lemon and honey in the morning! That weight will come right off. Such a pretty face. It’s just a few pounds.” Are you that person? Coz if you are, this message is for you:

Sweetie, the insecurity is in your mind. Not mine.

I don’t need you to tell me how pretty my face is. I already know. I also know that hot water with lemon and honey helps reduce belly fat but tastes like crap. I know I enjoy my long walks. I know I hate the confinement of a gym. But here’s what you don’t know – I don’t need your encouragement. I don’t feel what you feel. I don’t see what you see. And perhaps, the person who needs that little push towards a healthier life is you. You need a life where you are able to accept who you are. And I’d start with finding things that make you appreciate yourself. Finding the tiny differences and feeling empowered, not disappointed. Maybe even talking to your loved ones about how you feel and asking them to help you identify your strengths to build your own self-confidence. And you don’t need to be skinny or fit or have a perfect life. You can be exactly who you are and still love yourself. It’s not that unrealistic.

I tell my boyfriend all the time how I can’t wait for us to just be together. “When we’re married, we should have naked days, baby! Like days of the week. Around the house.” I’m not afraid. I’m not insecure. I have no problem with someone I love seeing me. The real me – all the fat, all the extra skin, the stretch marks, the sagging boobs, the tiny bulges of fat on my ass and everything that makes me who I am.

I’m not going to rush to lose weight. If it’s not to find a man, it’s not because I feel ugly, it’s not because I can’t walk or I’m severely unhealthy – Why should I be forced to lose weight?

Because someone else thinks I should? NO!

I mean, haven’t you met me?

I’m BIG. I’m FAT. And…

Didn’t you read the title?

So fucking SEXY!