I’m Riya Kumari, a graduate in Multimedia and Mass Communication from Indraprastha College for Women. From a young age, I found myself drawn to people’s stories. “Saving people” was never just a dramatic idea; it was a quiet instinct that kept growing. Friends, classmates, even strangers would come to me, and somewhere in those conversations, I discovered my voice. Not just to speak, but to guide, to comfort, and to inspire. Over time, that voice turned into a deeper purpose: to write. But not just for the sake of writing. I write to leave a mark. I want to create words that people carry with them long after they’ve finished reading. If something I write helps someone take one step forward, feel a little less lost, or rethink something that matters, then I know I’m doing what I’m meant to do.
I’m Riya Kumari, a graduate in Multimedia and Mass Communication from Indraprastha College for Women. From a young age, I found myself drawn to people’s stories. “Saving people” was never just a dramatic idea; it was a quiet instinct that kept growing. Friends, classmates, even strangers would come to me, and somewhere in those conversations, I discovered my voice. Not just to speak, but to guide, to comfort, and to inspire. Over time, that voice turned into a deeper purpose: to write. But not just for the sake of writing. I write to leave a mark. I want to create words that people carry with them long after they’ve finished reading. If something I write helps someone take one step forward, feel a little less lost, or rethink something that matters, then I know I’m doing what I’m meant to do.
By Riya Kumari
I’ll say it: friendships these days come with shorter expiry dates than a packet of Amul cream in May. One minute you're trauma-dumping over chai and calling each other “soul siblings”, and the next you're muted, archived, and replaced by some yoga influencer who replies with “sunshineeee” to every story.
I’ll say it: friendships these days come with shorter expiry dates than a packet of Amul cream in May. One minute you're trauma-dumping over chai and calling each other “soul siblings”, and the next you're muted, archived, and replaced by some yoga influencer who replies with “sunshineeee” to every story.
By Riya Kumari
So, there I was—halfway through a pint of ice cream, phone in one hand, doomscrolling through engagement photos of people I once swore would never settle down. And then it hit me: What actually makes someone wife material? And please don’t say “makes good tea” unless you want to be launched into the sun.
So, there I was—halfway through a pint of ice cream, phone in one hand, doomscrolling through engagement photos of people I once swore would never settle down. And then it hit me: What actually makes someone wife material? And please don’t say “makes good tea” unless you want to be launched into the sun.
By Riya Kumari
Somewhere between taking care of everyone else, remembering to drink water, and trying to be "present" while also thinking about the laundry, the bills, and whether that thing I said last week was weird—I knew something had to shift. And what helped? Surprisingly, it wasn’t more productivity hacks. It was Tibetan philosophy—not in the “quit your job and go meditate in the mountains” way, but in small, human ways.
Somewhere between taking care of everyone else, remembering to drink water, and trying to be "present" while also thinking about the laundry, the bills, and whether that thing I said last week was weird—I knew something had to shift. And what helped? Surprisingly, it wasn’t more productivity hacks. It was Tibetan philosophy—not in the “quit your job and go meditate in the mountains” way, but in small, human ways.
By Riya Kumari
According to the Gita, clinging to anger is like “drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.” Which is dramatic. And true. Ever noticed how they move on with their life—posting sunsets and selfies—while you’re stuck reliving their betrayal like it’s your emotional Netflix? The Gita is big on detachment—not in the ghosting-your-therapist way—but in the don’t-be-chained-to-pain way.
According to the Gita, clinging to anger is like “drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.” Which is dramatic. And true. Ever noticed how they move on with their life—posting sunsets and selfies—while you’re stuck reliving their betrayal like it’s your emotional Netflix? The Gita is big on detachment—not in the ghosting-your-therapist way—but in the don’t-be-chained-to-pain way.
By Riya Kumari
Let’s be honest—earning loyalty in today’s world is like trying to find your Uber driver in a crowd of identical white cars. Everyone says they’re loyal, everyone says they’re committed, but the second things get slightly inconvenient? Boom. Ghosted. Flaky friendships, slippery colleagues, that one cousin who borrows your stuff and forgets your birthday—loyalty feels like a rare NFT: highly talked about, barely seen in action.
Let’s be honest—earning loyalty in today’s world is like trying to find your Uber driver in a crowd of identical white cars. Everyone says they’re loyal, everyone says they’re committed, but the second things get slightly inconvenient? Boom. Ghosted. Flaky friendships, slippery colleagues, that one cousin who borrows your stuff and forgets your birthday—loyalty feels like a rare NFT: highly talked about, barely seen in action.
By Riya Kumari
Let’s talk about rice. No, not that dreamy Thai basil fried rice from your favorite takeout. I'm talking about that modest heap of uncooked, white grains sitting like a little sacred mountain on a banana leaf during Hindu rituals. The one you saw at your cousin’s wedding, your neighbor’s housewarming, and basically any pooja ever. Ever wondered why rice is always invited?
Let’s talk about rice. No, not that dreamy Thai basil fried rice from your favorite takeout. I'm talking about that modest heap of uncooked, white grains sitting like a little sacred mountain on a banana leaf during Hindu rituals. The one you saw at your cousin’s wedding, your neighbor’s housewarming, and basically any pooja ever. Ever wondered why rice is always invited?
By Riya Kumari
Okay, so here’s the scene: You're at a dinner party, a little bored, swirling your drink, half-listening to someone drone on about their keto journey—and then, suddenly, someone drops a bomb. Not literally (we’re not in a Netflix thriller), but emotionally. Like, “I don’t think I even love him anymore,” or “I hacked my boss’s emails.” And you're just there, blinking, pretending to sip your wine while internally screaming OH MY GOD WHAT.
Okay, so here’s the scene: You're at a dinner party, a little bored, swirling your drink, half-listening to someone drone on about their keto journey—and then, suddenly, someone drops a bomb. Not literally (we’re not in a Netflix thriller), but emotionally. Like, “I don’t think I even love him anymore,” or “I hacked my boss’s emails.” And you're just there, blinking, pretending to sip your wine while internally screaming OH MY GOD WHAT.
By Riya Kumari
Faith is a vibe. It grounds us, gives our anxieties a designated inbox, and lets us pretend—if only for a moment—that the universe has a plan, and it’s not just one big group chat with zero moderators. Ganesh reminds us to begin well. That before the hustle, the hype, and the “hustle harder” Instagram quotes, there’s value in a pause. A prayer. A deep breath.
Faith is a vibe. It grounds us, gives our anxieties a designated inbox, and lets us pretend—if only for a moment—that the universe has a plan, and it’s not just one big group chat with zero moderators. Ganesh reminds us to begin well. That before the hustle, the hype, and the “hustle harder” Instagram quotes, there’s value in a pause. A prayer. A deep breath.
By Riya Kumari
Okay, so picture this: It’s 5:45 AM. You’re half-asleep, wrapped in your mother’s dupatta because she dragged you to the temple “just for darshan,” and suddenly you see it—milk. Pouring. On a stone. A lot of milk. Cold. White. Creamy. Flowing down the neck of a deity who, quite frankly, looks like he’s definitely lactose intolerant.
Okay, so picture this: It’s 5:45 AM. You’re half-asleep, wrapped in your mother’s dupatta because she dragged you to the temple “just for darshan,” and suddenly you see it—milk. Pouring. On a stone. A lot of milk. Cold. White. Creamy. Flowing down the neck of a deity who, quite frankly, looks like he’s definitely lactose intolerant.
By Riya Kumari
Okay, confession time: I used to think covering your head in temples was like that one auntie’s way of hiding a bad dye job or, I don’t know, making a slow-motion Bollywood entrance feel legit. You know, all that fabric flying like a soap opera teaser trailer. Until I found myself at a temple, clutching a scarf like a clueless tourist in a spiritual Coachella—utterly baffled and half-convinced I was doing it wrong.
Okay, confession time: I used to think covering your head in temples was like that one auntie’s way of hiding a bad dye job or, I don’t know, making a slow-motion Bollywood entrance feel legit. You know, all that fabric flying like a soap opera teaser trailer. Until I found myself at a temple, clutching a scarf like a clueless tourist in a spiritual Coachella—utterly baffled and half-convinced I was doing it wrong.
By Charu Sharma
By Amritansh Nayak
By Vaibhav Kochar
By Amritansh Nayak
By Isha Gogia
By Isha Gogia
By Charu Sharma
