When I was growing up, Maa’s kitchen had some manner of grinding, slow cooking going on at all times. But my utter lack of initiative when it comes to feeding people ghar ka khaana has been the cause of great pain to women in my family.

I grew up in a house where boys were groomed to make their will known from a young age, while girls were taught to be demure. So I learned how to negotiate like a pro, but the self-affirming lesson of saying no to my own family eluded me.

My annual budget for haircuts runs comfortably into five digits. I own an ungodly amount of silver jewellery, bags, and indigo dresses. I suppose I am what society calls “high maintenance”. But I promise you, no man was hurt in the making of this film.

We women spend a lot of time fretting over how to navigate professional worlds controlled by men. But we rarely get to thank the women who, despite everything that stands in our way and theirs, make life a little less difficult. I’m talking about the work moms and work wives of our lives.

In the last one month, since the Pulwama attack, among those doubling up as defence experts are smug army brats. Their fathers served in the forces, but these skilled piggy-backers have never left behind big city comforts. The odiousness of army brats is tiresome in peacetime, but insufferable when the real threat of conflict lurks in the air.

A few days ago, I invested in a house of my own. I want a home where I don’t have to spend three days in a month lurking outside the kitchen because it’s “that time of the month”. I want a house where I can’t be removed from no matter what (or who) I do. Not by misogynist landlords or housing societies that randomly decide they don’t want “bachelors”.

Days after I outed my abuser at the height of the #MeToo movement last October, I was overcome by gut-wrenching guilt. A big part of it was seeded in my belief that for the most part, people deserve second chances. Were a few unwelcome dirty messages a crime big enough to warrant the obliteration of his public image?

The “call out” culture on social media has no real friends, and no real beliefs either. Most of us choose the causes we support and tailor what we say depending on how popular our opinions are among our followers. And what’s lacking in this snitch tradition is the ability to forgive, or even simply empathise with human failings.

Periods are used as convenient tools to dismiss and overpower women. This experience is so common to patriarchal societies that frankly, I was baffled that a documentary as simplistic as Period. End Of Sentence. was considered insightful enough to earn an Oscar. Perhaps that’s what makes it relevant.

Gully Boy’s characters — not just Murad, but all the angry, hopeful, listless, fighting, restless people that crowd his world — refuse to be silenced or ignored. They don’t speak “our” language, but by God, they’ll have their say.

When your boyfriend cheats on you, you feel humiliated and worthless. But when a best friend cheats on you, it knocks the wind out of you. No one makes a friend thinking that they might some day jump into bed with your partner, knowing better than almost anyone else, what that betrayal would do to you.

Farhan Akhtar, who was supposed to make his debut with The Fakir Of Venice, decided not to promote the film at all. Apparently, he believes that it would “cheat the audience” to see him as he was “12 years ago”. As someone who has watched almost Akhtar since his debut in Rock On!!, I can say this much with certainty — he is just as good/bad/average he was 10 years ago.

Dear Dev.Ds, we fell for you; we wanted to be the ones who changed you. We wanted to make your darkness evaporate. But we should have known better. You were never going to change, and we would end up losing ourselves.

A small-town lesbian love story might make Ek Ladki Ko Dekha Toh Aisa Laga the most unexpected romance of the year, but equally riveting is its secondary plot. The Sonam Kapoor-starrer needs to be lauded for its honest portrayal of parent-child relationships, and exactly how far Indian children go to not disappoint their parents.

Why do we women squeeze ourselves into undergarments that behave like torture devices accessorised with elastic, bows, and ribbons that are meant to irritate the skin at inopportune moments? I’ve realised you aren’t truly emancipated until the day you find yourself committed to the cause of comfortable drawers.

We did not expect Thackeray, produced by Shiv Sena’s Sanjay Raut and directed by MNS’s Abhijit Panse, to be critical of the party supremo. But even their unabashed allegiance can’t prepare you for the relish with which the film glorifies the ugliest parts of Bal Thackeray’s legacy.

As someone rooting for the success of Manikarnika, I was hungry for the movie to delve into the story behind the story. Did the exemplary Queen of Jhansi make mistakes? Did she have regrets? But the film only offers us Kangana Ranaut’s glaring dialogue-baazi and jaw clenching, and hammy plot devices.

Male characters in books and pop culture can be disgusting assholes and own that personality, but women characters – barring a few outliers – are mostly pretty, passive, and perfect. Where are the women that behave like jerks simply because they can? Where are our female Sherlock Holmes and Mr Darcy?

Patriarchy benefits me in the tiny ways that it can benefit only upper-class, upper-caste Hindu women in India. I hate that most workplaces won’t treat me as equal, but I have to admit that it’s a relief to have the freedom to fail professionally, or even choose to have a career at all.

The jawan’s plight is of great relevance to every problem plaguing the country from black money to AFSPA – every problem, except those that directly affect the life of the jawan. Serving in the forces requires the strength to forego many of the freedoms that the rest of us enjoy. But how is it acceptable to snatch away a person’s freedom to love?

I’m experiencing the end of a glorious relationship that existed outside the bounds of marriage. Over the last few weeks, I’ve heard every variation of the “get some action” line of advice. Why do we treat relationships that don’t have a clearly defined, recognisable name like they were somehow inferior?

Years ago, I’d decided to stop giving a rat’s ass about people’s expectations from my body and love it for what it was. But I noticed something recently: I loved the high-angle shot which hid my second chin. I was clearly a fraud. So my only New Year's resolution is to love myself some more.

What’s with the multiple tawdry parties to celebrate a solitary life event like marriage? Unless you’re DeepVeer or Nickyanka – who also overdid it – the truth most people stuffing their faces with your ₹2,500-per-plate aren’t telling you is: No. One. Cares.

Why do so many women settle for lowball salary offers, far under the value that our experience merits? For all our idealism and outspoken feminism, when it is time to bat for ourselves in the most elementary of ways, why do we consistently fail ourselves?

In recent months, as #MeToo has scorched Bollywood – but only a little bit – our celebrities have responded in the most underwhelming ways. Priyanka Chopra is the latest one to indulge in whataboutery. Seriously, Bollywood, here’s how you should be responding to #MeToo-related queries.

It’s been only two weeks but we’ve already declared Ranveer Singh the husband of the year/decade/century/millennium. Why exactly? For helping his wife navigate the pallu of her sari at their wedding reception? Or blowing kisses to her in public?

#ThisWeekOnArré: On my 30th birthday, I realised that I was exhausted of pretending I enjoyed being in the rat race and I finally admitted that I was unambitious. It was the best investment I’ve made in my mental health.

The concept of Radical Honesty isn’t just about telling the truth – you have to commit to voicing every stupid, bitchy, relationship-ending, career-destroying thought that tumbles through your head. I started my experiment with absolute truth-telling and landed in my own private hell.