Notes From Shivani

Tag: writing

  • This Rakhi Does Not Come With a Warranty

    This Rakhi Does Not Come With a Warranty


    Redefining Bonds Beyond Tradition and A New Perspective on Sisterhood

    This one is for all the little girls out there who don’t have a brother,
    for the ones who do,
    for the ones who have already been told what to believe in,
    for the ones asking questions,
    and the ones who don’t know yet that they’re allowed to ask.

    Every little girl gets auditioned for this role, by women who love them.
    I was auditioned as well. I was tied to brotherly energies.
    I didn’t question it and I am grateful for them.
    But as I grew up and stepped out into the world, outside my home,
    the colors shifted.
    I have watched festivals I loved go quiet in my heart.
    They do not feel the same.
    Somewhere in there, I started noticing Mohalla Aunties.
    I never see them as villains, yet.
    I see them as a chorus reciting lines they never wrote.

    Tie the thread. Make the wish.
    Not a woman, you are a fish.
    This little puddle, be your ocean.
    Smile should be your only emotion.
    Trust the boy, tied to you
    Be it blood or by ceremony.
    He will not..
    He should not..
    He might not harm you, feel free
    Other chum? We can’t guarantee.

    Let me paint a picture for you.
    They are so afraid for their sons’ futures,
    so certain some woman out there is so dangerous,
    she could take him away to a land not meant for him.
    “Whatever would happen to him if he starts experiencing life in technicolor?”
    The contradiction, they believe,
    this son in his torn baniyan, belly soft from a life she spent feeding him,
    is somebody’s savior.
    My suggestion: start from home. Let him save you.

    So I have lost that emotional connection to this thread, like many other women, I’m sure.

    I’m pretty sure an XY chromosome does not come bundled with a warranty of protection.
    If it did, the GEICO gecko would already be selling a policy for it.
    It does, however, occasionally,
    come with a make-believe certificate of, “Item may lead to people in it’s vicinity to seek therapy”.


    I have watched enough men take the Rakhi and give nothing back to the world,
    no defense, no interruption, not a raised voice in the room where a woman needed one,
    where she is ambushed by unwarranted opinions, and many times by literal bodies.
    The thread is never doing the work.
    They are not protecting their own sister,
    while certainly causing anxiety and pain to someone else’s sister.


    So this year, I’m tying this bracelet of thread, to things with known history to not hurt ‘anybody’s’ sister.
    Things I’m tying Rakhi to this year:

    1. My LLM- the one who sat with me when the night was dark the one who sat with me more times than any man ever offered to.
    2. My daily dose of coffee- it single-handedly takes care of what protein shakes and men with opinions cannot.
    3. My favorite green couch- my derrière is imprinted on its base. If somebody sat there, they could feel my aura.
    4. The giant redwood outside my office window- it watches over me. It’s my oldest sibling yet. We are just from different generations.
    5. My air fryer- it fries up and makes everything I put into it turn crispy.
    6. My journals- who will take in all of my tears in all of my hopes and dreams in one night. They bleed ink from many sleepless nights.
    7. Jonas Brothers – we grew up in the same years every single time I needed a song the universe handed me one of these. I don’t know how else to say, but they saved me. That’s a brother.
    8. Ganesh Ji and Hanuman ji, always.
    9. My father-who actually protected me so I keep this one.
    10. My sister- who I didn’t tie Rakhi to as a girl because no one told me I was allowed to, but I know better now.

    I will not become one of those aunties.
    I will not be that contradiction in this world.
    A torn baniyan, tilak on forehead and a fed belly don’t make a savior.
    I refuse that audition, on the last Friday of this August in my diary.

    My message to little girls, especially my daughter :
    You are not required to tie a thread to anyone who has not earned it.
    Not blood, not custom, not a man who has done nothing but wear the string.
    Look around first. Notice who actually sat with you in the dark.
    Make sure they aren’t hurting the fish in somebody else’s pond.
    Then tie it there.

  • Still Sixteen

    Still Sixteen

    Dear Ma,

    At my house, I have become strangely capable.

    I can host dinners now.

    I know how to stretch leftovers into proper meals.

    I own matching bowls.

    I say things like “let the onions caramelize properly” with alarming confidence. 

    Since I moved out, I have become someone I think you’d be proud of in a kitchen. I make bread now. Proper loaves. I can save a dinner that’s going sideways. I can bake a cake from memory.

    But the moment I come home to you, all of that disappears.

    Suddenly, I cannot even boil water.

    You tuck fruit beside me before I ask.

    Coffee appears exactly when I am thinking about it.

    You tell me to wear my flip-flops so many times that eventually I obey like I am sixteen again.

    I become completely, gloriously useless in your presence.

    The other day, I told you I could make the best damn eggs.

    This was a lie supported entirely by confidence and Instagram reels.

    I had scrolled through way too many reels of beautiful women making eggs in spotless kitchens.

    Their hair softly curled. Sunlight pouring through windows. Jazz probably in the background.

    In that moment, I believed I was one of them.

    So I walked into your kitchen determined to prove it.

    I whisked the eggs dramatically.

    Tilted the pan professionally.

    Moved around with the confidence of someone who had absolutely no business being confident.

    Then I forgot to add oil.

    The eggs burned instantly.

    I had watched too many beautiful women make French omelettes. 

    I had also watched The Bear. In my head I was both. 

    The eggs disagreed.

    And yet, because it was you, I still showed you. 

    You make failure feel survivable.

    Anywhere else, I would have hidden the burnt omelette and laughed it off before anyone saw.

    But with you, I become brave enough to fail publicly.

    And you, being you, looked proud anyway.

    Not because the omelette was good.

    God knows it was terrible.

    But because your daughter had walked into the kitchen and tried.

    I think that is what home really is.

    I have been failing in front of you my whole life. You have never once looked away.

    Happy Birthday, Ma.
    Thank you for loving me long before I became capable.

  • 9:58 PM

    9:58 PM

    That is how good people arrive..

    Dear S,

    It is raining in California tonight, 

    which is not supposed to happen in spring.

    The little plant we potted outside, yesterday, is confused.

    So are the stray cats who often visit our backyard like they belong here.

    But the sky.

    Well, the sky is doing what it wants. 

    I am sitting with my notebook, a pen

    and a cup of something warm, thinking about you. 

    I always do that 

    when the world gets quiet 

    and a little unpredictable.

    Life will hand you nights when the electricity goes out.

    When the dark will stop feeling romantic 

    and more like a full stop.

    When that happens,

    I need you to promise me something, 

    don’t sit in it. 

    Find a candle. 

    Look for one in every corner, every drawer, every stranger’s bag. 

    And if you can’t find one, wait

    Because someone is already walking towards you 

    with matchsticks.

    That is how good people arrive. 

    Not announced, just… there.

    The world is not fair, 
    but it is occasionally breathtakingly kind.
    Learn to pause for it. 

    A shooting star. 

    Rain in spring. 

    You just have to be present enough to notice.

    There is a lullaby your nana sang to me. 

    My nana sang it to her. 

    Somewhere back in the long chain of women who made you possible, 

    someone sat in the dark 

    and hummed 

    until the fear went small.

    We have always known how to find light. 

    Not by magic. Not by luck. 

    But by the quiet stubbornness of women who refused to stop looking. 

    I come from them. 

    You come from me.

    My papa told me to be selfish 

    I never understood what he meant until I became your mother. 

    He meant: stay whole. 

    He meant: do not give yourself away in pieces 

    until there is nothing left to give. 

    Keep the center of yourself sacred. 

    You were not made to be small.

    Be the tremor in the ocean. 

    Be the ember that the volcano forgot to extinguish. 

    Be the force that leaves a mark on the ground 

    just by existing.

    Be the sky. 

    I’ll be here.

    Still singing.

    Love,
    Mama

  • The Sister, The Seamstress, and The Wedding

    The Sister, The Seamstress, and The Wedding

    Some dress you for an event. Some dress you for a memory.

    My sister got married this year. That feeling is still taking time to sink in.

    In the middle of all the chaos and planning, I found myself thinking about something very simple. I did not want to spend those days adjusting my blouse or worrying about safety pins. I just wanted to be present.

    That is how I ended up at Tamara by Tahani.

    The first time I walked in, there was soft jazz playing somewhere. Not loud. Just there. Gorgeous designs everywhere.

    Tahani did not rush me. She did not overwhelm me with options. She asked questions that were not about trends. She asked how I see myself. How I usually feel at big events. What I avoid. What I love but never pick for myself.

    Somewhere between those conversations and the fittings, I stopped feeling like a client. It felt collaborative.

    There was one day I walked in a little distracted. Too many things on my mind. Dance rehearsals. Family dynamics. Watching your sister step into a new life comes with a lot of weight. Tahani adjusted my dupatta quietly, stepped back, and said, “You are going to glow in this.”

    It was not dramatic. It was not a sales line. It felt steady. I believed her.

    The colors she chose surprised me in the best way. Soft and also strong. Feminine and impactful. I would look in the mirror during fittings and notice my posture change. I felt confidence you do not force. You just feel it.

    On the wedding days, I did not think about my any of my outfits at all. And that is the biggest compliment I can give. Nothing pulled at the wrong place. Nothing needed fixing. I did not once check myself in a mirror mid-function. I was busy laughing, crying, holding my sister’s hand.

    When I look back at the photos now, I see how relaxed I was. How fully there I felt.

    Tahani did not just stitch fabric. She gave me peace during days that mattered deeply. That is not small.

    I will always be thankful to her for that feeling.

    If you have ever worked with a designer who made you feel that way, I would love to hear about it. What did you wear on a day that mattered? How did it make you feel? Let’s exchange notes.

    And if you are curious about Tahani’s work, you can find her on Instagram at Tamara by Tahani.

  • Just Out Of The Frame

    Just Out Of The Frame

    Processing Memories After a Family Wedding

    I returned from the wedding to a very quiet home.

    I heard my footsteps after a long time.

    Now the flashbacks come.

    Kids running around, women admiring each other’s Chand Balis and hathphools, men and women sipping bourbons, hands pulling me into hugs, music still ringing in my ears and of course eyes searching for me across rooms.

    I’m still processing everything. 

    I fixed someone’s dress, I checked on folks if they were well fed, I tried to find space to share a laugh with my uncles and aunts. 

    I amplified the small bridal party by twisting the ‘extrovert’ knob inside my head where my body looked at me slightly amused, slightly exhausted, surprised at what I can still pull off. I made sure the people around me felt comforted. As an empath I rethink everything I say to others, making sure they don’t carry hurt for long. I absorbed emotions, so others don’t have to. I was the big sister to not just the bride but the whole of the wedding party who kept calling me ‘didi’. I came where I felt my need and quietly got back in the shadows where it was not there. I enjoyed every bit of it. I truly did.

    I was everywhere according to some.

    And nowhere according to others. 

    A part of me wants to hold these memories close and not share them with the world. Not because they are not beautiful, they are. I’m afraid of losing something in translation.What if the photographs, which look editorial by the way, do injustice to what I felt? What if the stillness of the image, flattens the way my body lived those moments. What if the frame cannot carry the weight of my emotions.

    The bride looks like Aphrodite herself came down to visit land.

    Every frame with her in it, feels like the magazine spread, like time paused to honor her.  And yet, those images do not share the way joy and exhaustion and love all sat together.

    They do not share how every time I saw her, I saw the little girl who had to grow up so fast.

    They do not share how my chest tightened with pride that MY sister pulled off an event which 100 people cannot put together. 

    How every time I saw her, I also imagined our Dad standing next to us, just out of the frame.

    I had the best time of my life with friends and family. That is undeniable. 

    My heart knows it without needing proof.

    For now the memories are warm and unedited. 

    For now I’m letting it all settle.

    Until the feelings find shape, these small things are keeping me steady:

    1. A fresh pair of socks after a 3 day long journey back home.
    2. Changing out of travel clothes
    3. Getting my diary out
    4. Remembering that coffee beans in India and Thailand are amazing but the good old commercial Starbucks hugs me the same.
    5. A simple sandwich, cut just right
    6. Salads <3
    7. Planning some travel for the coming year
    8. Planning events
    9. Reading books
    10. Picking up work
    11. Just looking at my daughter
    12. Understanding that I can continue to add to this list

    I’ll share the photographs soon, when the moments are ready to leave me.

    I don’t know when I became this person. But I recognize her now.

    (These are not photographs of the wedding, they are the spaces left behind.)

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  • To Infinity, Beyond…. and Birds (Part 1)

    To Infinity, Beyond…. and Birds (Part 1)

    Life is a movie!

    Photo by Darwin Vegher on Unsplash

    I wrote this journal about a weekend which was spent partly at the drive-in movie theatre, partly at the beach and finally at a massive buffet.

    While these moments may sound mundane on their own, at the end of my ‘adventure’, it did not feel ordinary. I was left with a swirl of unordinary feelings and thoughts and I wanted to condense them. Over time I kept writing and felt this piece became too long for a single post. Hence, you will notice that this experience of mine is split into two separate posts. Although you can read each one on it’s own, here I am, tugging at your sleeve like a little child, with a plea to read both one after the other.

    I imagined our weekend, like a movie itself.

    Cozy opening credits at the drive-in (watching Toy Story). Followed by a perfect sequel in the form of golden beaches and maybe a buffet for third installment finale.

    But no one thought that by the end of the first half, the radio would be blasting Maroon 5 instead of Woody(a character from Toy Story), the car trunk light would be auditioning for Broadway, and my family would be one step away from being chased off the beach by 300 birds.

    I pictured a golden sunset.

    Popcorn tubs the size of our heads.

    Fairy lights glowing in the trunk.

    Cushions so comfy you would think we packed the entire living room.

    And of course, Toy Story under the stars.

    The goal was simple: give my sister a memory she could take back with her, something we would talk about for years. And we did get that… although let’s just say, Pixar wasn’t the only one serving plot twists that night.

    Scene One: Sunset and Static

    We were among the first few to arrive at the drive-in, the sky was still orange and pink. We all had that restless excitement that we get before something fun.

    Then came the radio.

    The instructions were pretty simple, “Tune in to frequency X.” Easy right? 

    I tap the screen and set the radio frequency to ‘X’.

    I hear static, fuzz, and suddenly, Maroon 5 crooning, “She wiiiiiiill be looooooooved.” 

    A still from Toy Story at the Drive-In

    My husband tries again, and this time, it’s Lady Gaga, “Pa-pa-pa-poker face pa-pa-poker face, ma-ma-ma-ma” 

    Meanwhile, the family next door is nodding along to Toy Story. We fiddled with every button, leaned out of our car windows with polite desperation, “Hey, are you getting the movie?” They nodded. Meanwhile we were stuck in an accidental pop concert.

    I cracked a joke about Mr Potato Head being voiced by Adam Levine, but to be honest, I was tense. Me and my sister looked at each other with wide-eyes and signaled, “Is this really happening!?”. My husband finally gave up and marched off to get an actual radio. 

    He came back with the radio. But the tension was sky high.

    Scene Two: The Battle Of The Trunk Light

    With the sound sorted, you would think we could relax. Nope. 

    The trunk light.

    It glowed like a stubborn lighthouse, ruining our dark and cozy vibes. I tried everything, menu settings, dome light off, camp setting, climate tweaks.

    Nothing.

    It just glared at me like, Nice try lady!

    I found some tape in the car thinking we can cover it up. But it kept falling, peeling. Soon it looked like a preschool craft project, a last minute diorama.. tape hanging, paper falling, light still blazing like it’s auditioning for Broadway… and winning the role. 

    We kept laughing and groaning at the same time like contestants of a reality tv show who know what they have signed up for. 

    At one point, I had the brilliant idea to “trick the trunk”. Out came a paper clip. I poked the latch. It clicked! The light went off! Victory!

    … for two glorious seconds.

    Then the paperclip broke and got stuck.

    Me: I broke the car.

    My sister : Wide-eyed silence

    My husband: Calm, heroic, pushing the paper clip out like a Tesla-surgeon.

    Meanwhile, chaos was building up around me like I’m the centre of a failing ship.

    1. My daughter chanted on repeat, “I need popcorn, I need popcorn”
    2. My sister, half laughing, half exasperated, “I need wifi.. I need paper plate.. Where is the trash bag”
    3. My husband calling from his chair outside, “The radio is not working”

    And me in the middle, taped up, light blazing in my face, paperclip residue all over me.

    A picture of grace.

    My sister and my daughter having Poha and Popcorn with the trunk light ON

    Finally we went feral on the light. Layers of tape, more tape, all the tape. 

    The light gave up. 

    The crowd ( Us and our neighbors, who were following us more than watching the movie) cheered.

    It was pure comedy. Stressful in the moment but comedy gold in hindsight.

    The real winner though? My daughter. She ignored all of us including the light, happily curled up in my sister’s lap, laughing jumping, clapping and enjoying Toy Story like it was the greatest night of her life.

    Honestly, she was right. Kids always know how to focus on the joy. 

    I was too tired to eat much of the giant buttery tub of popcorn but my daughter made up for me. Her giggles were the true soundtrack of the night.

    This was the part 1 of our adventure. I would love for you to read part 2 and be a part of our little adventure.

    Read the second part here.

    If this diary entry spoke to something quiet inside you, you might like what I’ve written here, too.

    Part 2

  • Letters to Papa: The Man at the Corner Seat

    Letters to Papa: The Man at the Corner Seat

    Where I return to you one memory at a time.

    Photo by Patrick Pahlke on Unsplash

    My father was a simple man who lived his life brimming with NOW, everyday. Breakfast was his favorite meal of the day. He loved yogurt sprinkled with salt, cumin and Kashmiri red chili powder with almost every meal. Lunch and dinner would be incomplete for him without it.

    At night when my sister and I would sneak into the kitchen to make Maggi, his head would suddenly appear from the first door. With an ear to ear smile and a sparkle in his eyes he would ask, “Arre, what are you making, one for me too!”. In those moments, food was not just food, it was comfort, togetherness, laughter and just knowing he wanted to be part of our little world and not just mold us into his.


    He loved reading as much as he loved eating. Our shelves were filled with treasures: the complete Tintin collection, Rajan Iqbal, Mandrake the magician, Hardy Boys, Indian fiction, also the whole set of books related to management . He devoured comics and stories, the way he devoured his food, with absolute delight. Whenever he traveled, he brought back a mountain of books for me as gifts, as though he wanted me to inherit his appetite for books, as much as his appetite for food. My love for books and food, stems from him. He sowed the seeds for those dreams in me, just by living his joy.

    A picture of tintin figurines.

    Photo by omid roshan on Unsplash


    At the center of our house, is a six-seat dining table. Papa always sat in the corner seat, a place that was like his throne and lookout all at once. From there, he presided over meals, conversations, laughter and also arguments. 


    When a meal truly delighted him, Papa had a ritual. He would lean closer towards the table, lower his head and peer over his round glasses towards mom and say with a satisfied smile,”Tripti!” or “Maza aa gaya.” Those three words carried the weight of his joy.


    And he had a way of doing the same for me. When the world felt heavy, when my worries ran ahead of me, he would pull me back with the reassurance, “Tu chinta mat kar, abhi tera Baap zinda hai”. Don’t worry, your father is still here.

    Somehow that one line made the ground beneath my feet, steady again.

    Dad and Mum on his birthday.

    Dad and mum


    He believed in me. He always encouraged me to study. He showed me the importance of work and the importance to carve my place in this world. Never did he ever tell me that I belonged in the kitchen. Never asked me to make a single cup of Chai. Maybe that’s why, now, when I find myself cooking for my daughter, I wonder what he would think. Would he see the love and care in it?

    Would he see the way I’m trying to nurture her, and still be proud of me, even though he always imagined a bigger world for me?

    A part of me hopes he would smile and say, “Maza aa gaya.”

    I remember his cologne, his love for scents. I remember the gentle scent that meant papa was near. I remember his warmth, his teddy bear like persona. I remember his voice in the kitchen, his presence at the tables, his books on the shelf.

    Photo by Pierre Bamin on Unsplash

    The kitchen is mine now, but in it’s corners and aromas, in my books and in the laughter of my little daughter, my father still lives.

    And so, Papa,

    In memory and in love,

    I write to you.

    If you have lost someone dear, what memories and rituals keep them alive in your heart?

  • Things That Know Me

    Things That Know Me

    In the hour before the light, and long after the storm.


    Lately I’ve been thinking about things that truly know me.

    Not the people who claim to.

    Not the ones who say my name like they are announcing a verdict.

    This led me to ask myself, Who knows you?

    These are the things that have witnessed my light and my shadows.

    The cup that remembers how I like my coffee.

    The unwritten journal that waits for the version of me I aspire to become.

    The window that watches me think.

    This is an apothecary of those things.
    An inventory of objects that have memorized me,

    my scent, the songs I hum, the way I breathe when noone is looking.

    My pillow knows how I cry when I turn away,
    and how I tuck my feet in when the world has been too much.
    It smells of lavender oil and forgotten love stories.


    The ikea mug by the sink, knows the calm before the storm.

    It knows the part of me that follows new year resolutions

    and forgotten confessions.

    It knows I dance a little brighter when noone is looking.

    The Apple Music playlist titled Drive in Style knows every version of me:
    The girl who stopped believing in signs.
    The woman who is unbreakable.
    The mother who now sings along, trying to hit every note,
    because a toddler in the backseat thinks I light up the sun.

    My kitchen window knows how I wait,
    especially when it rains.
    It has seen me be patient as the water boils or the cake rises,
    and at a loss for words when I don’t pause between writing angry texts and deleting them.
    It has watched me laugh, lips stained with saffron and joy.
    It knows how the 6:00 AM light touches me like devotion.

    My daughter’s blanket knows how I sometimes hold it even when she’s not there.
    It knows the shape of my wait,
    folded into its corners and stitched into sleep.

    The mirror in the corner of my house knows I look into it when no one is around.
    It has seen me try on outfits that no longer fit, earrings I’m never going to wear.
    It knows that sometimes I stop just to check if my eyes still read like poems.

    My mother’s rolling pin knows I never get the circle right.
    But I try anyway.
    And it understands,
    sometimes love is lopsided, but love comes in different shapes.

    My cracked phone case knows I scroll through memories like it’s real-time.

    My reading glasses know the myths I collect like facts.
    About women who turn into flames, into sky, into time.
    They know how I long to turn into something, too.

    My worn-out socks know the map of the house I’ve built with love.
    Every tear knows a version of me that bloomed.

    The drawer full of perfume samples knows the women I try to become.

    Some Days I choose cinnamon and somedays Jasmine. I spray them on like spells, soft yet powerful.

    My Dad’s scarf knows exactly how I hold it when I need to feel safe in the world.

    The bathroom window at 6:17 AM knows how I love to shower in the dark, before the day arrives, when the sky is still indigo and house is asleep. The tree outside moves slowly like it’s reaching for me, like it remembers me from another life and finally found me.

    My drafts folder knows nights I fed words instead of myself. It’s full of half-named feelings and half-baked thoughts and it accepts them as they are without a need for me to complete them. 

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