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To All The Boys (People) Who’ve Misnamed Me Before

Creations of a weird girl, Quarantined

S W A S T I. Yes, with a double S. Simple six letter word. Two syllables. Refers to a person who does good for others. Names I’ve been called instead:
1. Swati– Now it would be foolish not to expect this, right? Clearly, this one is the more popular name.
2. Sawasti– Okay, maybe you just added an unnecessary syllable. No worries.
3. Swaasti– Every teacher ever. You might have forgotten to close your mouth after that first a. Manageable.
4. Sasti Masti– This one really took off after the release of Cheap Thrills. Fml.
5. Softy– Yes. Yes I am a nice adorable scoop of vanilla ice cream.
6. Shwasti– Maybe your terrible handwriting added the H between the S and W. But who knows?
7. Shwasthy– Umm, maybe you thought I’m from South?
8. Samakshi– Clearly it was my fault that I was standing next to a girl named Kamakshi and obviously your brain just clubbed the names together. My bad.
9. Sanskriti– Please tell me you mixed me up for another girl named Sanskriti and not actually said my name like that.
10. Shrishti– Are you even putting in any effort at this point? Or you begin with an S and going where your tongue takes you?
11. Shashwati– I mean come on! Are you serious? This one’s as difficult if not more and you still manage to call me this?!
12. Swastik– Know what? Still better than number 11.

Sometimes makes me wonder why my parents bothered to think up a unique name at all. All their efforts have gone down the drain. As for me, I respond to any and every name that starts with an S, including the ones mentioned above. No, it does not include predominantly male names. No use calling me Suraj or Sandeep.

Green Cup and Me: A Love Story

Creations of a weird girl, Quarantined

“It’s been going on for so long now. Every time I try and escape, it just pulls me right back in while making me feel guilty for ever thinking about leaving. It has affected my behaviour and personality towards others. I have bruises on both my knees along with a nearly broken back. It’s made me cry, it’s made me laugh. It has left me waiting for hours, sometimes even days. I have skipped meals for entire days. I have possibly developed a caffeine addiction.”
I wrote this a couple of days before we finally managed to get that Green Cup and successfully survived the Flower Show. Now I look back and just wonder how did I ever manage to get through all of it. And let me assure you I didn’t without many breakdowns.


Green Cup was my aim right from the Handing Over ceremony wherein the previous union of Prakriti metaphorically ‘handed over’ all the responsibilities to the new one. We then filled every single sliver of free time with a workshop on sustainability, or a trip to a biodiversity park or a seminar on dragonfly conservation or a meeting to discuss the latest issue of Ankur (blog of Prakriti) or a talk on this or a presentation on that. Every single seedball made, candle wax melted, stone painted, flower stem cut, meal missed, sleepless night and visit to the Principal’s office was for the Green Cup.


From getting screamed at for no reason at all, to screaming at others for no reason at all. From questioning why the lawns are forbidden territory to aggressively defending the locks on the gates. From teasing others for helping out in the hostel lawns to becoming nearly a Head Gardener of the same. From hiding in my room during last year’s hostel lawns inspection to nearly crying tears of joy on winning the Hostel Cup. From labelling even the most trifle of things to losing the glass base of my flower arrangement. From being ignorant of even the names of marigold to learning about Ikebana and Moribana. From being a micromanager to getting my earphones marinated in glue. From voicing disapproval on usage of paper for decoration to actually leading several departments to do the same. From being a skeptic of the Flower Show to being a resilient one waiting in pouring rains at its prize distribution, huddled under umbrellas. From 100% attendance in even tutorials to begging teachers for leniency for the same. Green Cup has truly shown me all the colours of the wind.


I have prioritised it over my reviewed research paper, art exhibitions, internship opportunities, flirting with a guy, paper presentation functions and my academics. No one from my school would believe that I actually put anything above my studies but I did. I’m not saying I abandoned all these opportunities, but I could have performed so much better in all. Okay okay, I wouldn’t have flirted anyways! Nonetheless, I have no regrets. I am glad of every choice I’ve made.


Early in the month, while chalking out my calendar, I knew that it will be nothing short of a Fuck-It-February. And now with the onset of Marvelous March, I am engulfed with emotions of gratitude and a deep sense of accomplishment. But I am sorry for all the scissors, knifes, markers lost. I am sorry for all the eyerolls. I am sorry for all the snaps. But in the end I am tired. More tired than I have ever been.

Beethoven and the Symphony of a Chetak Scooter

Creations of a weird girl

There exists no greater adversity than what Indian men have to go through every single night. They take it upon themselves to prove their valour and mettle in a fashion similar to that of their ancestors who had fought the great battles of Independence.

Confused? Let me illustrate through another example. Imagine a train compartment. 1 college student, desperately in need of sleep. 7 middle aged men. The college student hears the entire Beethoven’s symphony on a 100-piece orchestra. Don’t understand how 7 men can sound like a 100?

Clarification: The orchestra is the ear-splitting, nerve wracking, absolutely eternal snoring of Indian men. Yes, the louder they are, the braver they act in their dreams. That’s how modern men have chosen to fight their battles.

But just like in an orchestra, different instrumentalists contribute uniquely to the melody.

The gentle snorers are the messengers. Constant rhythm, constant pitch. They might even seem cute. Might work like a sound machine that sings a gentle lullaby to put you to sleep in a swaying hammock.

Then comes the snorer with false pretences. They take a loud breath in, but while breathing out sound like a popped balloon. They usually have snout stuck in their respiratory tracks or drill on their chins. And not in a cute baby kind of way. They sound like someone is forcing them to do Kapaalbharti in their dreams.

Then comes the real deal. The trumpet snorers. The false snorers consider them their idols. They have loud, uneven and obnoxious snores. Yes. They put their heart and soul into it. They make sure there exists absolutely no tempo, no rhythm. After all, that’s how they surprise their enemies. You can also imagine trying to start an old Chetak scooter. Yes, exactly the sound you remember. That’s what these fancy snorers sound like.

But the most harmful of them all are the competitive snorers. They lose in snoring matches as gracefully as Monica did the Gellar Cup. They gauge what the intensity of their enemy-snorers will be, and match that. They see it as a guitar riff-off battle. Or the jugalbandi of tablas. Either way, they are into professional snoring.

Granted that it might be due to a medical condition. But I just want to check if these men know they have a condition. And yes, women snore too. But when has the vacuum tight patriarchy ever let women warriors fight it out on the battlefield?

Remember the college student who couldn’t sleep? Yes Sherlock, that was me. Was this my way of ranting about middle-aged men with congested respiratory tracks? Perhaps.