The Bollywood Explanation Project

The Weather Conversation Conspiracy

Or: How I Became That Person Who Photographs Clouds

I knew something had changed when I found myself in a deep conversation about clouds — with the postman. Neither of us had a meteorology degree. But there we were, earnestly dissecting the sky like it had just made a controversial political statement. That’s when I realised: I’ve been fully inducted into Britain’s unofficial national pastime — talking about the weather like it owes us rent.

Just last week, I caught myself saying — with actual emotion — “Shame about the grey rolling in after such a lovely morning.”I was talking to my husband, who looked up from stirring a pot of curry like I’d just delivered bad news from the bank. The skies had turned. And so, apparently, had I.

The Day My London Bus Had an Emotional Breakdown

(And Other Transport Tales)

Let me tell you a London truth: you haven’t really lived here until a bus you were on has suddenly decided it doesn’t want to be a bus anymore.

The sign lights up: ‘This bus terminates here’

No warning, no explanation. Just a very British act of quiet resignation. Like the bus had an emotional breakdown mid-route, whispered “I can’t anymore” to itself, and checked out of the system.

Cue twelve confused passengers standing in the drizzle, collectively staring at a vehicle that’s just retired early — probably to pursue watercolour painting or therapy. I look at the sky (grey, obviously), then at my phone, which optimistically suggests there is another bus ‘in 4 minutes.’ Of course, it's lying. Again.

Welcome to London’s transport system: a marvel of design, obsessed with punctuality, easily bruised by a single drop of rain.

Growing Up At 18 VS Growing Up At 18

Let me tell you about the day my son turned 18 in London and I realised I had successfully raised what my mother would diplomatically call ‘a coconut’ - brown on the outside, white on the inside, and completely alien to the concept that adulthood is a community project requiring minimum fifteen opinions from relatives you see twice a year.

When The Husband Becomes The House Husband

Let me tell you about the day I realised I had become something that would make my grandmother perform emergency prayers for my soul: a wife whose husband stays home while she brings home the bacon (Roti in my case).

Confessions of a Reformed Queue-Jumper

Let me tell you about the day I discovered I had become a monster. Not the kind that lurks under beds or haunts Victorian mansions, but something far more sinister: a person who actually enjoys queuing. Yes, you read that right. I now derive genuine satisfaction from standing in perfectly spaced lines, and frankly, I'm not sure if this is personal growth or a complete personality breakdown.

When I stepped into Flame Tree Publishing's London office as their new writer-in-residence, I couldn't help but smile at the turn life had taken. Two and a half years ago, I traded Mumbai's relentless pulse for London's literary and artistic heartbeat - a journey that has been more than geographical. It's been a migration of perspective, pace, and creative purpose.