Witty Whispers

Every year, sometime in late October, the festive spirit takes over. The streets sparkle as if stitched with star, the air carries a hint of the aroma of roasted nuts and incense, and WhatsApp groups are flooded with messages that say “Diwali party when?”  And that’s when you know- the Diwali season has officially begun, that it brings with it chaos and calm both at once.  However, the festival of lights we celebrate today is not quite the one we grew up with. Don't get me wrong- at its core, it is still the same, it is merely the intricacies that Gen Z has altered to fit its own understanding of the world. Diwali has been remixed, filtered, and (let’s be honest) posted on Instagram, with the glow of ring lights replacing the glow of diyas. It continues to be, indubitably, a celebration of light, but it now comes with captions, playlists, and colour themes. Right at the center of this evolution stands a ritual that has been increasingly popularized over the last couple of year...

The AI-generated Ghibli trend that has taken over Instagram has been going around for a few days now, and I’ve been sitting with it, trying to make sense of how I feel. At first, it seemed harmless- just another internet craze where people turn their pictures into something dreamy and cinematic. But the more I saw it, the more discomforted I became. It has taken me some time to fully process why this trend unsettles me, but I believe I finally have my thoughts in place, and will articulate them through this blog. This new trend, where people ask ChatGPT or other AI tools to reimagine their own images in the style of Studio Ghibli, is one of the most absurd examples of art commodification I’ve seen in a while. It is not just about AI replicating an art style, but rather about how quickly people have reduced an entire legacy of animation to nothing more than a superficial filter for their pictures. Studio Ghibli’s artistry isn’t just about soft lighting and painterly backdrops. It’s abou...

People who text you when they get home, even when you didn’t ask- because care is in the little things. The ones who say, “I saved you a seat” in crowded rooms and “Let me know when you’re home” after long nights, making the world feel a little less lonely. The people who send voice notes because they know words on a screen won’t do justice to the story. The ones who remember the way you take your coffee, your oddly specific childhood dreams, the song you once called your comfort track. Those who notice when your silence isn’t peace but exhaustion. People who give you space without making you ask for it and pull you back in when you start to drift. The ones who meet your chaos with warmth and your fears with patience. The ones who wait for you when you’re tying your shoelaces instead of walking ahead. Friends who squeeze your hand just before you step on stage, who instinctively share their charger without being asked. Those who know when to sit in silence with you, when to make you la...

  Dear 2025, I greet you with a strange kind of gratitude, because 2024- unexpectedly, beautifully- was kind to me. Not in a perfect, ideal, Instagram-filtered way, but in the way that matters most: I grew. I healed. I learned to breathe again. 2024 wasn’t without its storms, but somehow, they passed without tearing me apart. I felt joy in the smallest of moments- the sound of laughter filling a quiet room, the warmth of hugs, the subtle triumphs that no one claps for. And now, 2025, I don’t expect you to outshine your predecessor. I don’t need you to. This isn’t a competition of years, and I’ve learned not to measure life by milestones or Instagram-worthy highlights. What I ask of you is simpler- just let me carry this quiet contentment forward. I promise not to demand perfection, but I will ask for grace- grace to stumble, to fail, to find my footing again. Because even in a good year, there are cracks, and that’s okay. So, 2025, here’s to being human, to...

The room is closing in.   It starts like it always does- a whisper,   a prickle under my skin,   a thought I wasn’t supposed to have.   But now it’s here,   and it won’t leave.   The room is closing in.   My chest is a locked door,   and someone’s thrown away the key.   Breathing feels borrowed,   my ribs caving in   like a house sinking into itself.   I claw at the edges of calm,   but my hands find nothing.   The room is closing in.   It clings to my spine,   a second shadow that twists and tightens.   My pulse races like it’s trying to outrun me.   It wins every time.   And I am left,   stumbling after myself.    The room is closing in.   The walls pulse like a heartbeat,   steady and relentless,   but it isn’t mine.   The air tastes wron...

Have you ever wished you could go back in time and change something in your past? Before the Coffee Gets Cold' by Toshikazu Kawaguchi is a captivating and touching novel that explores the concept of time travel in a unique and enchanting way. The story is set in Tokyo, in a quaint little café called Funiculi Funicula that offers its patrons the opportunity to journey back in time, albeit with a caveat - they must return back to the present before their coffee gets cold. The novel is divided into four parts, each following a different character who visits the café with a specific purpose in mind. Each of the visitors is constrained by a set of rules that they must adhere to. The scenes are described in vivid detail, and the author's use of imagery and sensory details create a cozy and inviting atmosphere. The cafe's rules for time travel are also well thought out, thus adding an element of mystery and bringing about curiosity in the mind of the reader. Every character's ...

Kyra and Sarah were the best of friends in school. They were always there for each other through thick and thin.  If one of them were to be spotted alone you would start wondering what was wrong. Their friendship was the epitome of love and caring and would be exemplified in their school by teachers and students alike. Teachers would discuss the two friends' closeness more than their performances in parent-teacher meets.  As luck would have it, they got into the same college after school, and their amity continued to blossom. Their college principal would often say jokingly, "Kyra and Sarah's relationship is more of an addiction than a friendship." When they finished their education and were going to pursue their own careers, they pledged to always stay in touch and never let their friendship die. They promised each other that they would meet up every weekend and this promise, they agreed, was necessary so that they keep the flame of their friendship alive.  For the f...

  There is an ancient Chinese belief, that “There exists a red thread, that connects all those who are destined to meet. This thread may stretch or tangle, but it never breaks.” I write this article in the midst of what the WHO calls a global pandemic, at a time when leaving one’s house puts you and your family members at risk. When an event like HPY manages to connect over two hundred people in these trying times, in spite of the several hurdles it has had to circumvent, we have to concede that the Chinese were right. “That One Month” Or this year, “those ten days”. HPY, simply put, is an experience that teaches you something new every minute, by exposing you to a new set of people, ideas, thought processes, strategies, and perspectives. It has been an important rite of passage for all “bawas and bawis” who have just wrapped up with their tenth standard exams. It connects the youth of this community, creating a bond that often lasts through entire lifetimes. This year, the bri...

 Being confined to home is as boring as watching grass grow. The quarantine situation was making me feel gloomier by the day, and at last, I could not contain myself. I just needed to step out of the house, be it anywhere, and I thought, what better place to go to than the beach. I was certain that as always, the sunrise would delight me and lift up my spirits. I set out early one morning to give myself the break I had been wanting for such a long time. After a ten-minute rickshaw ride, I arrived at the beach.  I set up my beach mat on the soft, brown sand. The waves roared and rolled down, crashing onto the shore with a soft hiss. The horizon seemed to be stitched with a line of silver. A flock of seagulls was squawking over my head, in hope that I might lay out some food for them to feast on. The sun would be rising anytime now, and I prepared myself to watch the promising show that mother nature put up for everyone to see.  The sun rays were like golden petals stretchi...