I have so much to apologise to my perfectly imperfect body for. For all the times I caught your eye and looked away. For the times I saw you in a photo and made a face. As I looked for “You’re beautiful”, I forgot to love you. I forgot that you loved me so much and I just couldn’t see it.

I’ve imposed a ban on attending nikaahs within the family. Being Muslim means that I can marry a cousin. Which means the potential of a “bhaijaan” to morph overnight into a prospective groom is 100 per cent and family weddings turn into a cringey, IRL version of Minder.

When my parents expected me to pursue medicine, my tuition teacher pointed out to my mother that I had a flair for English. Today, I find myself in this beautiful place in life where I tell stories for a living. It’s true: All it takes is one person to believe in you.

As our phones changed from landlines to mobiles, the internet sped up with us 1 kbps at a time. So the next time someone asks you where you’re from, slap your chest and proudly say that you were raised on the borderless, limitless empire of the internet.

As a twenty-something educated adult with a good track record of jobs and salary accounts, banks love me and I have come to make the most of that. I chose to live the best version of my life in EMIs – a lifestyle that has 14 per cent interest, but that’s ok.

When you lose both your parents, the constant is the assurance from relatives that you will be fine and things will be brighter. They do get brighter. But what I miss most is that my parents would’ve loved seeing me live my life. If only I could’ve grown up sooner.

Why do we put up with shitty office WiFi, harrowing commutes, and weird coworkers when modern technology allows us to conduct our business while being simultaneously hugged by our blankets? Working from home is Mumbai’s three-word answer to saving the environment – and our sanity.

Each time I open my dabba at lunch hour during Ramzan, the non-Muslim people at work gasp and ask, “You aren’t fasting?” Food defines their understanding of Islam and anyone in violation of that tenet threatens their understanding of the entire faith.

As a child, what I hated most about hosting, was having to wait until I got to eat. At first, I thought we let the men eat first because they’re older than us. I realised the practice had everything to do with my gender when I had to serve delicious saalan to my much younger male cousin.