Unlearning takes guts. It means looking your social studies textbook in the eye and saying, “I think we need to talk.” It means calling out casteism when it wears the mask of tradition. It means realizing that your surname doesn’t determine your worth any more than your coffee order does. It means honoring your karma, not your kundli.

If you're Hindu, you can’t just say “I love Diwali.” No, no. You must swiftly follow it up with “...and Eid! And Christmas! And Bihu! And every other festival known to humankind!” Otherwise, welcome to the dock, your Honour—charges: being a closeted majoritarian with suspicious amounts of ghee in your diet.

Religion. The perfect accessory for anyone looking to polish their reputation, boost their moral stock, or just get some solid Instagram likes by quoting ancient texts. If you’ve ever had someone flash their "I’m so spiritual" badge right before they do something shady, then you know exactly what I mean. It’s almost as if some people think the Holy Book doubles as a get-out-of-jail-free card for bad behavior. Newsflash: it doesn’t.

It starts innocently. You just want to “protect your peace.” Next thing you know, you're ghosting people like it's a full-time job. Why? Because your tolerance for surface-level drama now hovers somewhere between "nah" and "I'd rather do my taxes barefoot in winter." You start noticing things—like how your friend Jessica only calls when Mercury is in retrograde and her ex resurfaces.

The Gita knows all about it. Loss isn’t just a plot twist. It’s the entire character arc. Krishna doesn’t sit Arjuna down and go, “Okay, babe, here’s how to win the war.” No. He basically says, “You’re gonna lose people. You're gonna lose illusions. And by the end of it, if you’re lucky, you’ll lose your ego too.”

Let me paint you a scene. You’re standing at the corner of “What Am I Even Doing With My Life?” and “This Wasn’t The Plan.” Your phone’s on 2%, your last text got left on read, and the only thing more lost than your sense of direction is your sense of self.

So, you’ve been hearing all this buzz about “feminine energy” lately. Maybe you’ve been scrolling through Instagram, watching influencers bathe in crystals, lighting sage, and calling on their inner goddess, and you’re thinking, “Is this really for me? Like, is this actually going to make me feel like a better, more grounded version of myself, or is this just the universe’s way of asking me to buy overpriced candles?”

In an age of extremes, the ancient image of Ardhanarishvara—half Shiva, half Shakti—offers more than mythology; it holds a mirror to our fractured lives and shows a path toward wholeness. Ardhanarishvara is not meant to be just worshipped in stone. It was never just an idol; it was an instruction. A reminder that we are not meant to live split lives—torn between who we are and who we’re allowed to be.

Let’s talk about the biggest myth doing the rounds since Adam bit the apple and blamed Eve: men aren’t emotional. Oh honey, please. Men are so emotional, they make Taylor Swift’s entire discography look like an instruction manual for IKEA furniture. The difference? Women know how to feel. Men… sort of just let emotions leak out in wildly misplaced ways, like yelling during FIFA or throwing a full existential tantrum because their sandwich came with pickles.

You ever have a full-blown spiral about a text that just said “K”? Like, your brain pulls out a whiteboard and starts connecting red string to every traumatic memory from the third grade. Congrats—you’ve just overthought yourself into a metaphysical crisis. But here’s the plot twist: it’s not your anxiety. It’s not your sensitivity. It’s your ego. Yes. That thing in your head that whispers, “Everything is about you.” Even when it’s definitely, absolutely, comically not.