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 hotly debated Transgender Persons (Protection of Rights) Bill was passed in the Lok Sabha on Monday, causing activist to declare a “Gender Justice Murder Day.” The community’s frustration 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.

I suppose nothing quite tells you that age is not just a number like hitting 50 does. And we now celebrate it with a big, extravagant bash. Does anyone really care about us turning 50? Then again, does that argument hold in an age where beauty standards for even ageing women are relentless?

What’s been made clear by the entire story surrounding touchy-feely Joe Biden, is that young women will no longer brush their discomfort aside, simply because it doesn’t fall under the definition of harassment. The empathetic, handsy politician is a relic from a more forgiving past — and is now being called out for outdated, soft sexism.

Women fall in love with the nightie so madly, they never want to part ways. And why not? Its tent-like shape doesn’t discriminate – you might have Kareena-like abs or you might be well-rounded, the nightie gives everyone the sex appeal of a potato.

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.

The Kerala High Court recently upheld that women students have the same freedoms as men. The implications of these college rules go far beyond the campus. It goes against the understanding that the potential of young women is up for sacrifice without a second thought, as long as we can keep them in line.

As Indian girls, we are raised with the strict instruction that our bras should not be hung out to dry like the rest of the dirty linen we wash in public. Perhaps the reason that the bra has come to be a trigger garment is not because men can’t deal with it, but because with all our hiding we haven’t really given them a chance to.

Police in Tamil Nadu say that more than 50 women have been sexually abused by a four-member gang in Pollachi. Yet the plight of the survivors has gone unnoticed and reported sparingly by the mainstream media.

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?