Between pleasing ourselves and the people around us, we women lose sense of our ambitions. I crushed my competitive side to come across as less aggressive and more agreeable. I smiled more when asked to. I conform, but then I keep asking myself, “Did I settle?” “Don’t I deserve more?”

When women are in the street, the State better sit up and listen. So when a JNU student leader refuses to back down despite being beaten up, and when grandmothers and mothers in Shaheen Bagh gaze into the camera and demand answers of the PM, there is only so long he can hide behind silence and platitudes.

The Indian father-and-son duo may share a drink together, but they almost certainly never arrive at a conversation about how to treat women. I, myself, cannot remember if my father, after he had had a quarrel with mom, ever came to tell me that I was not supposed to behave the same.

Pageants like Miss Universe are some of the most dishonest talent shows in the world. They claim to be in search for a well-rounded woman, but always ends up looking more like wet T-shirt contests with a patriotic sash.

Each time I find myself on a deserted road, my mind goes into overdrive. I think of objects I have that could be used as weapons such as the handle of my bag or the cord of my phone charger with which I could strangle a potential assailant. But that’s not just me. That’s every woman in India.

The dupatta doesn’t ask anything of you. In our journey through life as women, the dupatta has found a way to be a constant companion, sometimes as an escape, a wingman, or just as an expression of our desires.

It’s been a decade since Sania Mirza won her first Grand Slam title, and India is still waiting for another woman to emulate her. But her road to the pinnacle was far from an easy one. Her life might look like a bed of roses, but Mirza sleeps on a thousand thorns.

There was a time I’d walk away from an altercation feeling confused, foolish, and chastised. On occasion, I’ve even been grateful that the man in question was being such a good sport about the embarrassing “misunderstanding”. Not anymore. I refuse to be gaslighted.

A lot has changed since the Sec 377 verdict. But zoom in a little and you’ll realise that despite the reading down of Section 377, the world around us is still struggling to transition into creating a more empathetic and accepting space for the community.

I’ve grown up never seeing my mother bare her body in front of me. And, this personal modesty rubbed off on me when I started swimming lessons. It was only in a ladies’ locker room in San Francisco, where I saw women in different stages of undress, did I realise it was okay to be comfortable in and with my body.

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.

When I got married, I had lots more on my plate. I inherited a bunch of my husband’s friends and relatives, and between them and work commitments, I had much less time for my older friends.

When my breasts first arrived, I didn’t quite know how to handle the sudden puberty-induced baggage. As they grew ambitiously in high school into the 36D terrain, I developed a hunch to make them less conspicuous. I thought I’d stop worrying about them in my 30s, but now we are fighting gravity together.

The trasngender community’s frustration at the Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Bill is understandable, as their campaign to have a say in the Bill has gone largely ignored for months.

I was clear that if ever I had a child, I would breastfeed him. Yet it wasn’t that simple. My baby and I were unable to sustain a latch. This wasn’t how it was meant to be.

When we tell little girls that they mature faster than their male counterparts, we’re indirectly teaching them that the onus of being the “bigger person” will always be on them. This is how we create a society where women are forced to look after the men in their lives in a way that will never be reciprocated.

When I was five, my friend’s grandfather forced himself on me. I called for help repeatedly but none came. In that moment, inside that MRI machine, I was that little girl whose almost lifeless body was on the floor, being violated.

The scars across my chest are badges of my victory. They are the marks of my mother’s endless support and my father’s struggle to understand me. After years of self-doubt and breakdowns, unwanted discomfort and dysphoria, and rejection from society for who I was, I could finally learn to love myself and my body. I made it.

At some point during our undefined courtship, my friend’s attentions went from playful to predatory. I was touched in places I didn’t want to be touched. All the behaviour that would earn a male friend several swift kicks in the nads, possibly even a police complaint. But in the absence of a penis poking my anatomy, I didn’t know how to qualify my experiences as violations.

My mother refused to wear a nose ring, viewing it as yet another marker of marital status that found its way onto a woman’s body. By the time I was a teen, piercings signified a way for women to exercise their right over their bodies. I embraced this piece of jewellery as instantly as my mother had rejected it.

Blaming women for the mistakes men make is a tale as old as time. After Pakistan’s dismal performance against India in the World Cup, it wasn’t too long before cricket fans figured out where the blame for their lax attitude really lies – with “Indian agent” Sania Mirza.

I started using the menstrual cup more than 15 years after I got my first period and it was the first time I engaged with my menses. I no longer loathed “that time of the month”. With every cycle I understood my body a little better, embraced it a little more

If you support the ban of a piece of clothing – a burqa, ghunghat, or a skirt – you’re still supporting the idea that women’s bodies, and what they put on them, can and should be subjected to regulation. Why should the world decide whether a woman should be behind a veil or cover her legs?

In my family, it is always the men who take all the important decisions. Elections are all about herd voting, where my father announces his political leanings and the rest follow. Women, they believe, are incapable of understanding the affairs of the State. But this year, despite all the pestering, I voted for a candidate of my choice.

In a now viral video, a Gurgaon woman is seen slut-shaming a girl, saying she and her friends “deserved to be raped” because of the clothes she wore. It reminded me of the culture of aunty establishment that has always been prevalent in our schools, where girls were reprimanded for the length of their uniforms.

We are socially conditioned to equate youth with beauty, and beauty as an accomplishment. But why not think of your crows’ feet and greys as sieves that filter out assholes who think women serve only one purpose – to be someone’s eye-candy? Let’s start by retiring “you don’t look your age!” as a compliment.

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.

Tune in to Episode 4 of Arré Sunte Ho!, a weekly podcast featuring hot takes on even hotter topics. This week, we're talking about women's bodies and asking the magic question: "Are Indians Embarrassed About The Bra?"

A woman constable in Uttar Pradesh was attacked with acid by a jilted lover. The fact that she is a cop did not deter the attacker. This is the stark dichotomy between the freedom women now have to make waves at work and the basic freedoms they continue to be denied in their personal lives.