Food blogs are constantly adapting to every new diet trend, perpetually coming up with questionable keto, vegan, and Whole 30 spins on traditional favourites. While their creative thinking is laudable, surely we can all agree that spiralised zucchini makes a salad, not a pasta dish?

As our bodies began to transform when we turned teens, the girls in my class started to get little makeovers. Many started waxing, some got their noses pierced, and almost everyone started applying kajal and lip balm. I resisted them all, convinced that giving in to make-up would suggest that I wasn’t enough the way I was; that I needed fixing to fit in.

The sex life of new parents is like Donald Trump’s brain – it’s non-existent. If it does exist, it is rare, awkward, and revolves around the bowel movements of your child.

While my Amma tried to get me to love reading, I developed a passion for being seen with books. On Instagram, I found such people in hordes, posing with coffee mugs, colourful markers, blank notepads, and expensive gadgets with captions like, “A book is to heart what poop is to pee.”

We have little tolerance for disruptions and would rather spend our time and energy on the new and exciting. Why should I stick to a cranky piece – of a gadget or a person – that demands constant attention when there’s a sleeker, more seductive version in the market?

Break-ups have gotten suckier with time, especially with social media thrown into the godless mix, with all the exes lurking in weird corners of the internet. But let me tell you what’s infinitely worse. Having an ex who has no social media footprint. That’s a different kind of hell.

As I mourned the passing of Vidya Sinha last Thursday, I couldn’t help but realise that Sinha was an Everyman’s heroine. As Deepa and Prabha in Rajnigandha and Choti Si Baat, two of Basu Chatterjee's classic outings, she oozed femininity that was distinctly Indian while embodying a sort of reckless abandon that was almost postmodern in its emancipation.

Although, none of the female characters in the second season of Sacred Games are killed off cheaply like Radhika Apte’s Anjali Mathur was last season, the new season can be accused of something worse: falling into the trap of mistaking the mere inclusion of female characters as doing justice to them.

Legend says that every night, Krishna descends upon a forest in Vrindavan to dance with his gopis. But in a town dependant on its faith economy, does it even matter if it's true?