Tinkle was this Forever Friend for Archana.

Archana chanced upon her first Tinkle when she was in the fourth grade. As she discovered a fascinating universe of quaint facts and folk tales within its pages, she gave it pride of place on her bookshelf and in her heart.

Tinkle never failed Archana - providing wholesome company, knowledge, entertainment, and a gateway to other lands and civilizations - one issue at a time. When Archana changed schools in the ninth grade and discovered that the new school library was Tinkle-less, she convinced her mom to ‘please, please subscribe’, so she would not be deprived of a primary source of joy and information.

Archana describes Tinkle as a meticulously curated book of stories, based on multiple characters, with exciting trivia, puzzles, and contests thrown in to engage its young readers.

In fact, this magnificent magazine was Archana’s favourite teacher throughout her childhood, influencing the way she spoke, behaved, travelled, and understood the world.

Without Tinkle, Archana’s childhood would have shaped very differently.

What, for instance, would train journeys have been like without the eager survey of tiny book stalls on railway platforms for the latest Tinkle?

And would her preferred comfort food – plain poha (flattened rice) with sugar – have tasted as awesome, without a warm, cozy Tinkle reading corner?

Would memories of growing up with her sister be the same without the wars over Tinkle – fierce affairs all of them!?

For peace to return to the home front, a Tinkle had to be evenly divided sometimes - yes, 50-50, right down the middle - between the warring sisters!

“I will give you a Tinkle”

When Archana speaks of her Tinkle tales, it becomes obvious that her relationship with the magazine runs deep and strong. She talks affectionately about Uncle Pai, the founder of Tinkle Magazine, as she would of a dear family friend.

Mr Anant Pai decided to start a comic book series when he discovered that children around him were ignorant of Indian mythology. He wanted to tell these stories in an engaging and child-friendly format. Amar Chitra Katha was thus born. In 1980, Mr. Pai launched Tinkle, under the banner of Rang Rekha Features (India's first comic and cartoon syndicate, launched by him way back in 1969).

While discussing a name for the magazine, Uncle Pai insisted it be “musical”.

Mr Subba Rao, who had first suggested the idea of a comic book, received a call while the core team was meeting to discuss the name. Mr Rao told the caller he was busy and would “give him a tinkle”. As he put the phone down, it struck him that Tinkle would be perfect, both musical and evocative! And so, Tinkle was born!

When children wrote to Uncle Pai, he never failed to write back. Archana remembers feeling heartbroken when her beloved Uncle Pai passed away in 2011.

A companion through a big move

When Archana was about to move to another country with her family, her Tinkle subscription had to stop. However, the Tinkle-deprived sisters soon discovered an online Tinkle. They promptly opened their accounts on tinkleonline.com (now upgraded to tinkle.in), zealously participated in online games, activities, and quizzes, and connected with an equally passionate digital Tinkle community. Thus, they found a new way of relating to Tinkle and expressing their fondness for the magazine.

Archana was naturally possessive about her magnificent collection of Tinkles. They were “soooo precious!”. She even prepared a catalogue of Tinkle volumes, by name, to keep track of her collection and verify that it was intact.

During Archana’s farewell party at home before the big move, one of her friends helped herself to a couple of her Tinkles. Archana’s heart sank! Would she see her Tinkles again? Before leaving, she met her friend one last time, and asked if she could have her Tinkles back. Her friend was not prepared to return all the Tinkles. They had to reach a middle ground, and Archana returned home minus a couple of Tinkles. She still thinks back to those missing Tinkles in her collection, wondering if she is attaching too much importance to a material possession.

But Tinkle was not just another “material possession”!

Within its pages lay a wondrous and lively world inhabited by thoughtfully conceived personalities that could make the reader laugh and cry all at once.

Archana, who went to an Indian school abroad, was grateful to Tinkle for helping her bridge the cultural gaps between her and her friends from across the oceans.

Archana particularly loved reading folktales from parts of the Indian subcontinent other than her own origins. She lapped up every tale on Kashmir, Rajasthan, Kerala, Sri Lanka, or Tibet and all the cultural nuances that came with them. Pictures in these stories helped her make sense of the world. The magazine became her gateway to different cultures. It helped reinforce her pride that the subcontinent she hailed from was diverse, rich, and beautiful.

She travelled across picturesque regions by thumbing through her magazine which threw up stories of these far flung lands. She learnt to embrace and celebrate the differences amongst diverse peoples from her reading corner.

Happy endings

Uncle Pai, along with his clever editorial team, had come up with a brilliant cast of characters to populate the magazine. For Archana, these quirky, singularly flawed protagonists are still totally unforgettable!

Today, as she rattles off the names of her favourite characters, her eyes shine with love and mischief.

Suppandi left Archana and her cousins in splits. He was the simpleton, always only getting the literal meaning of his manager’s instructions. The poor fellow, he could never keep a job!

Nasruddin Hoodja was the “fun problem-solver”, the village wit, the Mullah with the keen sense of observation, who solved all the problems in his neighbourhood.

Shikari Shambhu was a cowardly and lazy Shikari, perceived by the world as courageous! He got things done, despite himself! The process would be clumsy, but he managed to always come out on top!

Ramu Shamu were identical twin boys, about eight years old. They caused mischief, confused relatives, and embarrassed their parents through their innocent questions or acts.

Ina Mina Mynah Mo were sisters. Ina was the eldest. Mo the youngest. They were all at different stages of school or college. Their father was perpetually focused on living within a tight budget. He chose the cheapest restaurants and outings. Unfortunately for him, his excessive miserliness always cost him dearly. The endings to stories of the sister squad were always happy.

But Tinkle was more than just stories.

“It happened to me” was a section reserved for children to share their experiences and express themselves.

“Did you know?” gave a scientific perspective of everyday phenomena such as dreams, sleep, the chemical compounds in currency notes, etc.

DIY sections encouraged kids to create with whatever they found around them.

One can imagine what a boon Tinkle must have been, must still be for parents, especially when they need their kids to be constructively occupied! Archana certainly found much in her Tinkles to keep her happily busy and “never alone” - even through quiet and lonely moments.

And did Archana ever try to connect with her forever friend?

Yes! Archana remembers writing to Tinkle, and finally, one sunny day, opening her Tinkle to find her letter published in it!

There was a time when Tinkle used to publish the address of the letter writer in its pages. To Archana’s great joy (and her parents’ consternation), several Tinkle readers from across India started writing to her of their experiences… at a festival in Kashmir, at a basketball tournament in Bangalore, at a boarding school in Bangalore, in Silchar where nature jostled with humanity! Pen-friendships took off on a trusting note, with Archana reciprocating by writing back to all her new pen-friends and staying in touch for years, learning and sharing thoughts, feelings, and adventures.

From Tinkle, Archana remembers receiving goodies, notably letter pads, for her contributions to the magazine. All in all, she managed to collect five beautiful letter pads, collector’s items! She never wrote a word in them – her acquisition was too rare to be spoiled by quotidian notes. And she received the princely amount of Rs. 40 via money order for her publications!

That was the moment she knew her writing career was off to a great start!

Tinkle made sure that there were always happy endings!

Kermaan wrote this piece during a writing workshop of the Humaning Storytelling course. If you would like to contribute to this newsletter:

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I don’t know if I’ll ever have a treasure trove of precious trinkets to hand down to the generation after me, but they can certainly have my collection of books.

Even the copy of Diabetes for Dummies that sits on my shelf.

Let me back up - I have Type 1 Diabetes.

And no, I don’t want this book passed on because I anticipate that they’ll need it because of any kind of genetic predisposition to the condition. Even though its many variants run thick in our family’s legacy, I hope and pray that a cure for the condition becomes accessible soon.

About a month after we started dating, my husband, Akash, surprised me with a video call and proudly held up his latest purchase. A thick yellow book, with endless pages on various types of diabetes and how to deal with each one.

Funnily enough, he never managed to get beyond chapter 2, but to me, it’s the gesture that matters. In the 8 years we’ve been together, he has made up for not finishing the book by showing up for me as a caregiver, with utmost kindness and empathy, in more ways than I can count.

I feel privileged that my family’s circumstances never compelled us to think of my condition as a burden.

My parents raised me to be confident in my ability to care for myself independently. As a result, I never felt the need to hide my life with diabetes from the world.

My parents did get the occasional “Poor girl! Who will marry her?” from supposedly “well-intentioned” relatives. This worrisome question must have nestled deeply in their minds like a splinter. Yet they never let this fear pass on to me.

Perhaps the confidence that I projected to the people around me about how I care for myself, helped them normalize it. And given that Akash and I were friends for many years before we started dating each other, I didn’t really need to warm him up to the idea of also becoming a caregiver when he chose to become my partner.

Unfortunately, not a lot of young people in India living with Type 1 Diabetes can say the same for themselves. The general lack of awareness about the condition and rampant misinformation have painted a bleak picture of the futures of people like us.

I know of a lot of people with Diabetes who are as privileged as I am (at least financially and educationally) and yet, they struggle to find a partner or face rejection due to the stigma surrounding their condition. Sadly, a few of them have internalised this stigma and accepted the “Who will marry me?” question as their reality.

It doesn’t have to be this way though. I also know of people who, like me, have very supportive partners cheering them on bearing green flags in both their hands.

You can read these stories from the links below:

Saumya & Srikanth - Acceptance and Romance

Devangana & Karan - Acceptance and Respect

Sabah & Imran - Acceptance and Resilience

Sharing their stories on my newsletter is my humble attempt at flipping the “Who will marry me?” and “Will my condition be accepted?” questions on their head to “Who will I choose to marry?” and “What do I want from a partner beyond their acceptance?”

In India, we often speak of marriage as an act of “settling down”. Unfortunately, many people who aren’t dealt the best hand of cards health-wise are conditioned to merely “settle” for anyone who accepts them.

But because I am a glass-half-full kind of person, I sincerely hope that Saumya’s, Devangana’s, Sabah’s and my own story serve as a reminder that our pancreas may be dead, but our right to choose a partner who honours our whole selves is very much alive.

When I interviewed people from the Diabetes community for this piece, the women happened to be more comfortable sharing their stories than the men. While I’m sure many young boys may have been subjected to the same kind of stigma, I don’t think I am incorrect in assuming that it is harder for a young girl to deal with it, given as a nation we haven’t gone beyond campaigns to mobilise support for her right to live and right to education.

So, to my Dear Strees with Diabetes (Women with Diabetes) who may be reading this article – should you choose to marry, adorn yourself with confidence and wear your resilience with dignity, like my grandmother makes all the women in our family wear their Stree Dhan. And remember, unlike the five stages of grief, acceptance here is not the final step, but only Step 01.

The Humaning Stories exclusively features the work of students of the Humaning Storytelling Course - a writing course by the author of Womaning in India.

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Trigger warning: Depression

“And that is why, our band ONE4U always supports mental health campaigns. We believe that mental illnesses are not different from physical illnesses, and treatment options should be available to everyone.”

I say these words, smiling at the host, locking eyes with her.  

“Everyone should be able to give themselves the time to heal from these wounds. Today, we are proud to announce that we will be donating 500,000 USD to various foundations working for this cause”.

I am used to the flashing cameras and the applause from the live audience by now. It has been - what? - ten years since I have been doing these interviews? I know my lines.

All I have to do is smile and repeat them. The host will do the rest.

The show ends with a huge applause and I bow down to everyone to convey my thanks.

As I walk back to the trailer with my manager behind me, I make sure my face is devoid of any emotion.

If there is one thing all these years living as a K-pop idol has taught me, it is to never let your guard down.

I get into my trailer before I allow myself to really breathe.

My manager quickly passes me my depression medication.

“You did great. Don’t think too much. Now let’s move on to the next one”.

I pop the pills and nod silently. My days are always booked full. We drive to the studio silently, where I have another interview coming up.

“Practice your smile. It felt a little forced in the last one. Emphasise a bit more on how the company lets you take time off to recharge mentally. Remember you have four more interviews before we wrap up today.”

It takes all the energy I have left in me to give him a silent nod.

Bhuvana wrote this piece during a writing workshop of the Humaning Storytelling course. A k-pop fan, she was inspired to write this fictional piece by the harsh realities of the personal lives of her icons, their curtailed personal freedoms, and the impact that might have on one’s mental health.

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The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow over the secluded beach. The sound of waves caressing the shore provided a soothing symphony. Maya and Aarti sat side by side, facing each other, yet their gazes were fixed on the horizon, the setting sun painting the clouds in fiery hues.

“It is beautiful,” Maya whispered, her voice barely audible over the lull of the waves. “This place always makes me feel as comforted as it did when you first brought me here.”

Aarti glanced at her shyly, a blush creeping up her neck. “You looked like you needed a place to hide…”

“I will never forget that day,” Maya said, more to herself than to Aarti.

A bittersweet smile touched Aarti's lips. “For what it's worth, if he hadn't broken your heart, you wouldn't have come running to the washroom to find it locked…”

“…and run right into you,” Maya finished her sentence, the memory bringing a soft smile to her own face.

The two sat silently for a while, the only sound the rhythmic crash of the waves against the shore.

Aarti felt her heart skip a beat.

She had been rehearsing something for a long time. In fact, ever since the day Maya quite literally ran into her, their frantic search for a working restroom leading to an unexpected moment of connection.

Taking a deep breath, she finally spoke, “Maya, there's something I've been wanting to tell you.”

Maya's gaze snapped towards her, and in those warm brown eyes, Aarti saw a reflection of her own growing feelings.

Suddenly, Aarti was aware of everything: the way Maya's curls gently danced with the wind, the scent of salt and hope clinging to the air, the thunderous roar in her ears that might have been the waves or her own pounding heart.

Taking another deep breath, Maya slid closer. Her eyes – the colour of melted chocolate – pinned Aarti in place.

It was Maya who spoke this time. “I know we've been close, and I cherish our friendship more than anything. But… I can't keep pretending that this is all that I want.”

Aarti's eyes widened. A rush of emotions flooded her—fear, relief, and a thrill of excitement so intense it took her breath away.

Maya's hand reached out, her fingers brushing against Aarti's. A spark ignited at the touch, sending shivers down Aarti's spine. Their fingers intertwined, a silent promise in the language of touch.

Aarti looked down, a choked sob escaping her lips. The scene mirrored one she had dreamt of countless times, and now, here it was, unfolding before her very eyes.

Seconds turned into minutes, the silence thick with unspoken feelings.

Finally, Maya, her voice laced with concern, whispered, “Say something?”

“I… I'm scared…” The words tumbled out of Aarti's lips, a confession whispered on the wind. “I wanted… I've kept this… You… I don't ever want to lose you…”

“How could you ever lose me, when from the beginning you have always been by my side… and I yours?” Maya's words were a balm to Aarti's anxieties.

“I am afraid because I don't want anything to change between us…” Aarti confessed, her voice barely above a whisper.

“It will change,” Maya said, a twinkle in her eyes, “but in the best way possible. We are going to start something new… right here… right now.”

As Maya leaned in, the last sliver of the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in a breathtaking display of purples, golds, and fiery reds. It was a moment suspended in time, a testament to the love story blossoming between them. A love story that would face challenges, for sure, but one they were ready to face together, hand in hand, hearts intertwined.

With trembling lips, Aarti met Maya halfway, their first kiss a hesitant brush against each other's emotions. But as the kiss deepened, a wave of certainty washed over them.

This was the beginning of something new, something beautiful, something they were ready to build together. The sound of the waves crashed around them, not a roar now, but a gentle applause for a love story just beginning.

Richa wrote this piece during a writing workshop of the Humaning Storytelling course. If you would like to contribute to this newsletter:

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I came home, tired after a long day at work.

You came running towards the door as soon as I rang the bell.

I entered the house and you looked at me longingly with your arms outstretched – all foot and a half of you – wanting me to gather you in my arms.

With my bag still on my shoulder, I scooped you up and rained kisses on your face.

Then, grinning your two-toothed grin, you held my face in your tiny hands and kept looking at me.

I tried putting you down so that I could enter the house and get a drink of water. But that was the day I experienced - for the first time - the strength of will that a tiny pair of hands can muster.

You pinned me with your soft eyes and kept looking at me.

Then - when it seemed like you had had enough - you laid your head on my shoulder. I still remember the scent of your hair - Johnsons’ baby powder - and the feel of your soft skin on my cheek.

25 years later, I was at the airport looking around when I saw a shadow in front of me.

I looked up and there you were - all six feet of my nephew - enveloping me in the warmest of hugs.

“Welcome to Berlin”, you said.

Lakshmi wrote this piece during a writing workshop of the Humaning Storytelling course. If you would like to contribute to this newsletter:

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Trigger warning: Loss of a loved one, suicidal ideation

A world ago, I lost my smile,

Lost to time, I turned fragile.

With you came will to rise, to shine,

With you, our home became a shrine.

“I don't want to live” - I once told you,

I'd been betrayed by hearts untrue.

But I survived on a wing and your prayer,

I breathed some, your breath turned to air.

Ma, I want to tuck you in,

To sponge you down, to stroke your chin.

Your brow, your cheek, your hair, your hand,

So soft, so wise, so piously veined.

Do you see me Ma?

Numb and lost in time and space,

Pink chiffons and iron law,

Regal carriage and soulful gaze.

Where are you? I grapple with a void,

So vast, so dark, of life devoid.

In whose arms will I now my pain unpack?

Who'll say to me, “I have your back”?

I search my soul and I see you,

In my tearful heart, your love so true.

In every thought, every tender hue,

In pink blossom, in cool breeze and dew.

A world ago, you bowed out with grace

I miss you Ma. I miss your lovely face.

Kermaan wrote this piece during a writing workshop of the Humaning Storytelling course. If you would like to contribute to this newsletter:

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The multi-colored bangles on my mom’s dressing table brought a glint to my eye. I was fourteen when I tried them on for the first time. I loved the tinkling sound they made and the shimmer of light they radiated.

A few weeks later, my cousin wanted to test her new bright blue nail paint. She playfully suggested that she would try them on my hands as hers were already coloured with an orange she didn’t want to take off.

The experience was new, and I was charmed at how lovely my fingers looked screaming blue.

I went to school the next day - the paint still on - only to be met with a ghastly reaction from the entire class.

I quietly went to the back of the class and stayed there - in hiding - till the bell rang.

Being in my body has been a constant struggle.

I am constantly torn between trying hard to fit into societal gender norms and wanting to enjoy the little joys of expressing myself the way I want to.

The Universe answered my prayers in the form of a band.

It was BTS – a South Korean band that was slowly gaining popularity across the world.

Learning about the band – its members and their gender-fluid expression – filled me with confidence and courage to be me.

I saw them perform wearing makeup, skirts, heels, painted-on nails, and coloured hair.

Finally, a representation I identified with!

I felt liberated. Acknowledged. Seen.

The next time a Pride March happened in my city, I decided I did not need to hide anymore. I was all in. I marched that day – embracing my identity, myself – unfiltered.

On the first day of college, I walked in with my nails painted a bright green, my wrists adorned with bangles of all colours - knowing this was going to be a fun, forever discovery!

Joe wrote this piece during a writing workshop of the Humaning Storytelling course. If you would like to contribute to this newsletter:

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“If U wmen h8 men so much, y u dnt stay single?”

Ah. If only our life choices were that simple!

“Stp this FEMINAZI bullsht, whore!”

Way to engage respectfully, tell me more?

The Bhai fan clicked the blue bracelet on his wrist,

Then posted it on his MRA page, a visionary leader in their midst.

“girls wil break your hearts and marry d rich boy alwayz!”

#NotAllMen, sure. But #YesAllWomen suffer the male gaze.

“Show these gold diggers their place, be a real mard.”

The doctor read the teen’s tweet as she entered the covid ward.

“Dinner is ready, son! I made your favourite, don’t be late.”

“Coming mom!”, he said, hitting ‘share’ on the reel from Andrew Tate.

“Look, she wears pants to work! How unbecoming!”

Don’t worry, we will set them right. Animal ka sequel is coming.

Mahima wrote this piece during a writing workshop of the Humaning Storytelling course. If you would like to contribute to this newsletter:

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Trigger warning: Loss, grief, cancer

My husband picked at the drumsticks from the bisi bele bath* and grudgingly put them on my plate.

"Don't know why they put these things and spoil the taste", he said.

That was when my senses were filled with the fragrance of the delicacy. As I took spoonfuls, I could not help feeling heavy and suffocated. Tears welled up in my eyes.

The special seasoning, which was almost as exotic in its taste as its smell, the mush of the rice and the pulses, and the subtle smell of ghee, imploded both my senses and my memories.

My mother's bisi bele bath was the best anyone could ever have tasted.

I was not the only one saying it. My batchmates from the company I worked for back in 2005 had all come home for dinner at our Chennai home. We had made it a practice to visit each other's homes during our "Bharat Darshan" (cross-country) training. It seemed like a rather good excuse to indulge in home-cooked food across the country.

They all drooled so much over it that evening that my mother packed it in a dozen lunch satchels the day we boarded the train for our next destination.

Yummy bisi bele bath that always stung my eyes when I saw it because it reminded me of my mother, back home.

Now, it reminds me of the mother who is no more.

Food, music, temples, faith, community - so many things associated with growing up started to feel tedious and tragic after we lost my mom to cancer. Nothing made sense.

The more I saw beauty in flowers in her favourite colour, the more the peace moved me to grief. I unconsciously stopped doing things that would stab my heart because it reminded me of the love that was no longer available.

Until these very things started flowing back into my life with lesser and lesser stabs.

I started listening to Carnatic music a good 8 years after her death. I only realized it was grief that had kept me away from it when I heard it quite by chance recently.

Visiting temples or hearing bhajans stopped being tragic memorials. Though I would not seek them out, I could tolerate them.

My eyes still prick when I see her pictures, remember her smile, or feel her presence while relating her stories to my child.

Yet, I know that greater power and time continue to heal me.

Soon enough, there may come a day when the smell and taste of the restaurant-bought bisi bele bath on my plate will no longer be spoiled by the scent of my tears.

*Bisi bele bath is a spicy, aromatic South Indian dish prepared using rice, dal, vegetables, and spices

Deepa wrote this piece during a writing workshop of the Humaning Storytelling course. If you would like to contribute to this newsletter too:

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“Sanna I’m going to office today.”

“Mmm…”

“Make sure to soak rajma for tonight.”

“Mghm okay”, I’m so groggy I can’t think right.

Sssss. 

My eyes jolt open. That was a spray of Davidoff Coolwater. But.. on a different skin. 

“Chalo, bye.”

My mum just sprayed herself with the blue bottle of perfume that rests in the far corner of my drawer. The room holds a faint scent of it. 

Immediately, I remember you. 

I pull out my phone and text “I miss you”.

And then, after a beat, “How was your day?”

I roll over on my bed and hug my pillow. 

I love that perfume. Specifically, I love the combination of that perfume on your skin. I still remember when I first hugged you - all those years back - when we were still friends. 

I remember catching a whiff of you and feeling only warmth and comfort. Coolwater mixed with your sweat and soap. This smell can only mean love and home and familiarity and comfort. 

I hug the pillow tighter and take a deep breath in, trying to force all the molecules of the perfume to move toward me. 

I miss you so much.

I remember when we weren’t talking. I would randomly smell a similar perfume on a passerby and my heart would pang and reminisce.

I remember when we started talking again, and we were on a Scooty together, and whenever the wind blew against us, I would catch a whiff of home. 

I remember when we first got together - how comfortable you smelled. 

I remember the latest day I saw you. 

How long we held our hug and how I tried my best to breathe you in to imprint your scent into my mind, trying to remember this whiff forever.

You gave me your sweater as a going-away present, and I wore it every single day until the perfume wore off. You gave me your perfume too, but, somehow, it still isn’t the perfect, homely scent that lingers around you.

Gosh. I miss you so much.

I take another deep breath in. I wonder when I will be able to smell this perfect combination of love and comfort next.

I wonder how many days I will have to wait and how many miles I will have to travel to feel and sense and smell that apex level of comfort again.

My phone buzzes. “Good morning, I love you.”

Instantly, I’m beaming. Whatever the time and the distance, you are worth the wait.

Sanj wrote this piece during a writing workshop of the Humaning Storytelling course. If you would like to contribute to this newsletter too:

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I find it hard to look at any markers of achievements — medals, trophies, certificates, even testimonials. I hide them so I never have to look at them.

I have always felt that I am, in a way, a fraud.

“I didn't deserve these achievements in the first place, so how can they belong to me?”

“I might have deceived the professors.”

“People must have lied to me to make me feel good.”

“They gave me the certificates just to boost my morale.”

It feels as if The Impostor has always lived in me.

Sometimes, I wonder if it captured the precious territory of my mind and body during puberty. Perhaps it ousted The Innocence that used to reside there earlier.

I have always wanted a home of my own — a space where I could just be.

In my home, I could bathe without putting on a latch. I could walk around without a bra, sometimes even naked. I could plan or not plan my day. I could listen to the music of my choice with the volume adjusted to my mood. I could dance as non-dancers do.

I wanted a specific kind of calm in my home. I would have dedicated spaces for reading, working, resting, and cooking in my home. Most importantly, I would not have to entertain loud noises — of people, television, neighbors, children, ‘jagran’, ‘kirtan’, ‘katha’ — all the things that bothered me in my childhood home.

On special days, I would invite people over. I would host a friend who needs a warm layover in the city, or a colleague who had a bad day and needed a hug. These would be my people – not my father’s, mother’s, or husband’s.

They would be my friends, my family, my colleagues, or even my strangers.

I have never lived in a space where I could be vulnerable and unfiltered. I realized that I could only be that self in my own place — with that power on my side.

I wanted to provide such a space to visitors in my home. No one would need to wait for power to be on their side in my home. I wanted them to start practicing, reflecting, and becoming the human beings they want to be.

I wanted people to enter my home and feel that they were entering a different world — an unfiltered world, where they could just be. They could rant, dance, sing, share, overshare, cook, drink, play, or just lay on the bed. In my home, honesty would actually be ‘the best policy’. That quote we learned in school but no one ever applied would apply in my home.

When I was separating from my husband, I decided against moving back in with my parents, or even living with flatmates. I knew it would be difficult and expensive, but I decided to fight my fears and leave my comfort zone. It was time.

I was ready to have my own space.

I wanted to put a marker to celebrate my lifetime achievement — my rented home in Delhi.

This time, surprisingly, the Impostor did not rear its ugly head.

Maybe a mystical Superpower took over my body and mind — ready to help me survive divorce. Ready to fight and defeat the Impostor.

Either the Superpower defeated the Impostor, or they signed a peace treaty. I am unaware of the details.

All I know is that I wanted to honour this achievement of mine with a simple but powerful marker – a nameplate that would say:

I wanted my nameplate to be special. Not extravagant, but personal and meaningful.

I asked my mother if she would handcraft a nameplate for my home.

What could be a more profound way to receive a blessing from my mother to start my new life — a life that perhaps she could never choose for herself.

In a way, I was also seeking permission from my mother to break a generational chain of women living choiceless lives.

I was seeking ‘choice’.

Today, the nameplate sits proudly at the entrance to my home in Delhi.

It looks innocuous to the untrained eye, but I have a feeling that it gently protects me.

It instills in me a sense of self-worth when days get tough. More than anything, it keeps the Impostor in me dormant.

Perhaps that was the treaty. A tripartite agreement between the Superpower, the Impostor, and my Mother in which my mother had veto power and signed it off as:

Shreya wrote this piece during a writing workshop of the Humaning Storytelling course. If you would like to contribute to this newsletter too:

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Aarti originally wrote the poem in Hindi, but has also translated it in English so more readers can follow it. Please scroll down if you prefer to read in English. Also, don’t miss the audio files where she has read both versions of the poem aloud in her wonderful voice ❤️

अदृश्य

मैं ख़ुद को खोना नहीं चाहती थी,

लेकिन,

खोती तो तब जब ख़ुद को पा पाती…

घर, पति, बच्चे, ससुराल, पीहर,

सब रिश्ते निभाती रही,

और धीरे धीरे खुद को खोती गयी.

रोज़ अपने से उलझती, झगड़ती,

कभी तो अपने मन की करूँ.

किताबें पढ़ूँ बिना गिल्ट के, गाने सुनूँ,

सुनूँ ही नहीं पर गाऊँ भी.

ज़ोर ज़ोर से…

फिर माँ की घुड़की कानों में बज उठती,

“लड़की हो, धीमें हँसो, आँखें नीचे रखो, मीठा बोलो”

“लाज शर्म नहीं क्या?

वही तो असली गहना है तुम्हारा”

“बाप रे! इत्ता गुस्सा?

लड़की हो, नहीं चलेगा

ससुराल में कैसे निभेगी?

घर कैसे जोड़ कर रखोगी?”

कभी लगता है माँ सच ही तो कहती है,

उसने ऐसे ही जिया है और खुश है,

उसका सम्मान भी सब करते है.

फिर मुझे क्यों प्रॉब्लम होती है?

पढ़ लिख कर कही वेस्टर्न आइडियाज तो नहीं आ गए?

सच ही तो है कि घर औरत से बनता है.

घर को जोड़ना रिश्तों को सहेजना सब की सुनना,

स्वार्थी नहीं हो सकते कि बस अपनी सोचें,

अपने मन की ही करें…

तो अब मैंने अपने आप को समझा लिया है.

माँ हूँ तो बच्चों का ख़याल तो रखना होगा,

चाहे उम्र में कितने बड़े हो जायें,

आखिर हैं तो मेरे ही बच्चे

पत्नी हूँ, पति का ख्याल रखना ही तो प्रेम है,

अन-बन का क्या है, जीवन का हिस्सा है

लेकिन न जाने क्यों कई बार,

खीज उठती हूँ, चिल्लाना चाहती हूँ,

पर फिर अपनी चीख खुद ही निगल जाती हूँ…

ऐसा नहीं कि गाने नहीं गाती, किताबें नहीं पढ़ती,

पिक्चर नहीं देखती, सहेलियों से बातें नहीं करती,

पर जाने क्यों एक बोझ लिए फिरती हूँ,

लगता है सबको सुनती हूँ,

पर ख़ुद को ही सुन नहीं पाती.

कभी घुटन सी होती है, आवाज़ नहीं निकलती,

क्या है, क्यों है, चाह कर भी बता नहीं पाती

शायद वो शब्द ही नहीं रहे,

जो बयाँ कर सकें कि क्या चल रहा है मन में,

झूझ रही हूँ सबसे, और अपने आपसे भी.

मैं ख़ुद को खोना नहीं चाहती थी,

लेकिन,

खोती तो तब जब ख़ुद को पा पाती…

Aarti wrote this poem during a writing workshop of the Humaning Storytelling course.

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Unseen

I don’t want to lose myself

But

You can’t lose that which you never found…

Home, husband, kids, in-laws house, parents house,

I kept maintaining relations with others and losing myself…

Every day I would struggle,

fight with myself,

Looking for that one day when I do what I want.

Read books, listen to songs without guilt,

not just listen but sing as well.

Loud. Very loud.

Then I remember my mother’s warning

“You are a girl, laugh softly, lower your eyes, speak sweetly”

“Don’t you have any shame?

Shame is the girl’s real ornament”

“Oh God! Such a temper?

You are girl, this won’t fly

How will you manage at in-laws house?

How will you keep your home together?”

Then I think - maybe mom was right,

She has lived this life, and she is happy.

Everyone respects her.

Then why do I have a problem?

Has my education corrupted me with western ideologies?

Isn't it true that a woman makes a home?

Uniting, maintaining relations, listening to everybody.

She cannot be selfish and only think about herself,

Or do what pleases her!

So now I have convinced myself,

I am a mother and I have to look after my children,

no matter how old they get,

They will always be my children.

I am a wife and taking care of my husband is love,

Arguments are a part of a marriage.

But I don’t know why sometimes,

I still get frustrated, I want to shout,

Then I swallow my screams…

It isn’t that I don’t listen to songs or don’t read books,

That I don’t watch movies or talk to my girlfriends,

But I carry a burden inside me everywhere.

I listen to everyone but,

I feel I can’t hear myself.

Sometimes I choke, I lose my voice,

What is it, why is it – even if I want to – I am unable to talk?

Maybe I have lost the words,

That can tell you what is happening in my mind.

I am struggling with others, with myself.

I don’t want to lose myself

But

You can’t lose that which you never found…

Aarti wrote this poem during a writing workshop of the Humaning Storytelling course.

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Each salwar suit in the closet longed for the top shelf – the shelf that would catch Divya's eyes as soon as she stepped out of the shower. The clothes often fought for space - tossing and jostling - crumpling each other’s creases.

That day, when the blue chiffon set came back into the closet from the laundry, all the clothes gathered around it.

“What did you see outside?”, they asked her.

Tired of being cooped up in the closet, the other suits always wanted to know what was happening outside.

“It rained,” answered the chiffon suit.

“You say that every time. There is no need to lie to us. You're just so full of yourself!”, quipped the others.

They had been envious of the sky-blue suit ever since she entered the closet.

She was gifted to Divya on Rakshabandhan by one of her cousins. She lay untouched for a while in the closet, but then Divya took her to her favourite tailor and got her stitched.

She instantly became Divya’s favourite after that. She had worn this chiffon set more than her other suits in the past few months.

“It really did rain!”, the suit now cried.

The blue sari Divya’s mom had gifted her hugged the suit. “Don't cry, dear. You will crumple your nice folds, and your threads will come loose. The others are just teasing you.”

A hinge creaked, and all sound ceased.

The clothes fell silent as Divya opened the closet.

They stood neatly ironed - but they angrily swirled as Divya's hands searched for the sky-blue chiffon set yet again.

Divya found the set. It seemed strangely crumpled. Spreading the kurta on the table, she gently ironed the creases out, as the radio played the title song from "Kuch Kuch Hota Hai".

Divya smiled at the coincidence. Her friends had remarked that she looked like Rani Mukherjee from the movie in the chiffon set, with her hair gently falling over her shoulders.

“Oh no”, she suddenly paused, “What if it rains again? It always rains when I wear this dress. And I have to take the bus today. It would get all muddy."

 The radio host said, “The drought is intensifying in Bundelhand. Farmers suffer without rains, and the local economy is crumbling under the harsh heat.”

“I will wear this today”, thought Divya and smiled again.

Jahnavi wrote this piece during a writing workshop of the Humaning Storytelling course.

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Aaji (grandmother) is sitting in her usual bed. Her walker is beside her. She never uses it.

“I keep forgetting,” she says.

My mom and dad just nod and make her use it every time she gets up. All her clothes are bundled up in different places around her. That is her favourite activity nowadays. She simply keeps stuffing her clothes in various bundles. Nobody knows why.

She is 90-years-old and slowly breaking free of her tether to the world around her. She sees people around her whom none of us can. Memories of her childhood, some long-lost events keep unfolding before her eyes. Two small girls keep running around her or hiding in the corner. They are probably my sister and I. She raised both of us.

I go and sit beside her.

“Kadhi alis (When did you come)?” she asks and smiles.

“I came just now,” I tell her in a very loud voice as she has almost lost all her hearing.

She nods and goes on talking about random things.

Most of it is incoherent, but I catch some of it.

“The pea pods are not good today. I shelled so many but most of them were empty.”

Then some silence.

“That is when she gave me a small charkha. I used to spin little yarn on it every day,” she says suddenly.

I respond with “That’s so nice!”

She can barely hear that. After some time I get up to leave.

“Did you eat something? Did you have tea?” She asks and I say “Yes, aaji.”

“She is eating very little and has become a lot weaker. Now she can’t get up and sit,” my dad informs me one day.

I visit her again.

She is just lying in her bed. Her energy is slowly slipping away. But old memories and events continue to unfold before her eyes.

I sit beside her and lightly hold her hand. I suddenly become aware of how thin and frail it has become.

Has she even recognized me?

I look into her eyes and try to find answers.

I see nothing. Her talking continues. Some of it is audible, and some of it is not.

I try to listen.

“It is good that your mother was smart. That is why both of you went to school and learned a lot.”

Looks like she has recognized me, after all.

“Nobody let me go to school. They never allowed me to do a job,” she continues.

I don’t know what to say.

More silence.

She breaks it after a while and asks, “Now you tell me what do I do?”

“About what aaji?”

I am speechless.

She stops eating.

Five days later, there is no energy left in her to talk.

I call out to her, “Aaji, e aaji.” (Grandma, hey, Grandma)

Her closed eyelids move a little. That is the only movement she can manage.

A few hours after midnight, she breathes her last.

Ashlesha wrote this piece during a writing workshop of the Humaning Storytelling course.

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