As the breeze takes on its familiar chill and exams finally come to an end, my favourite season quietly takes over the city. It is not the long vacation, nor the crisp winter air. It is wedding season. All I want from this stretch of the year is a fresh stack of invitations, each promising a feast for the senses and, of course, a plate of biryani.
Fiction has long chronicled that women have always worked more than what is counted, felt more than what is acknowledged, and lost more than what anyone will ever quantify.
If the girls we read about could speak today, their voices would be both sharp and unflinching.
The scent of marigolds hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the rhythmic clash of cymbals and the murmur of crowds waiting for a glimpse of the goddess.
As the breeze takes on its familiar chill and exams finally come to an end, my favourite season quietly takes over the city. It is not the long vacation, nor the crisp winter air. It is wedding season. All I want from this stretch of the year is a fresh stack of invitations, each promising a feast for the senses and, of course, a plate of biryani.
Fiction has long chronicled that women have always worked more than what is counted, felt more than what is acknowledged, and lost more than what anyone will ever quantify.
If the girls we read about could speak today, their voices would be both sharp and unflinching.
The scent of marigolds hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the rhythmic clash of cymbals and the murmur of crowds waiting for a glimpse of the goddess.
