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Indian Classics

Does Social Media Turn You into a Bitter Person? The Anxiety No One Talks About

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We wake up and the first thing we do , almost instinctively is reach for our phones.
Before brushing, before breakfast, before our brain even fully wakes up, we scroll. Instagram. Threads. Snapchat. LinkedIn. The list goes on. A never-ending stream of people doing “better,” living “more,” achieving “faster.”

And then, quietly, something shifts inside us.

It’s not always visible. It’s not dramatic. But it’s there , a tiny sting that says, “Why not me?”

Social media was meant to connect us, but somewhere along the way, it started to shape our self-worth. The lines blurred between inspiration and comparison. Between admiration and envy. We don’t realize when appreciation turns into quiet bitterness , when someone’s vacation photo makes us sigh, not smile.

The Silent Bitterness

Have you ever noticed how your mood changes after a long scroll?
You start with curiosity, but end up with irritation , either at yourself or others.
You see filtered faces, luxury lives, success stories wrapped in pastel aesthetics. And suddenly, your own life starts feeling… small.

That’s how bitterness begins , not as anger, but as silent resentment disguised as self-doubt.

We start thinking:

  • “She got promoted again?”
  • “He’s travelling again?”
  • “How do they afford all this?”

What began as harmless updates turns into a scoreboard , of beauty, success, relationships, and happiness. And it’s exhausting.

The Anxiety We Don’t Acknowledge

Social media anxiety isn’t loud. It’s subtle , a quiet discomfort that follows you through the day.
It’s that urge to check who viewed your story.
It’s the sinking feeling when a post doesn’t “perform” the way you hoped.
It’s constantly thinking how your life appears rather than how it feels.

And over time, it rewires how we see ourselves. We crave validation from screens more than from people. We fear being irrelevant. We equate silence online with invisibility.

Breaking the Cycle

Here’s the truth ; it’s not social media itself that’s the villain.
It’s our relationship with it.

You can scroll without comparing. You can post without performing. You can disconnect without guilt.
Start by being intentional.
Unfollow accounts that trigger more envy than inspiration. Mute people if needed , it’s not rude, it’s healthy.

And remind yourself , people share their highlights, not their reality.

No one posts the messy mornings, the fights, the insecurities, the bad skin days, the self-doubt.
But that doesn’t mean those moments don’t exist.

Sip of Reality

Sometimes, it helps to just… pause.
Put your phone down. Take a sip of your coffee or chai.
Look around , your life is happening right now, not through someone else’s feed.

Social media can either make you bitter or better , it depends on how much power you give it.

So, the next time you scroll, ask yourself ;
Is this helping me feel inspired, or is it making me forget who I am?

Because at the end of the day, no number of likes can replace the peace that comes from self-acceptance.

Article (FYI) By Richa Mehndiratta

Aaati Hai Lajja

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(And every time, I wish she wouldn’t.)

She doesn’t knock.
She just enters. Uninvited.
Like an old relative who knows where the weakness in the door lies.
Aaati hai Lajja — shame, silence, suppression… wearing the face of tradition.

I met her in stories long before I met her in real life.

She was there in the tales of Sati — when young brides were burned alive on their husband’s pyre.
They called it devotion.
No one called it murder.
They called her “pavitra” (pure) — not “trapped.”
Lajja watched quietly — as always.

She showed up again in the ghunghats… in the burkhas… in the eyes lowered not out of grace, but fear.
And for some of us — like the Krishna Dasis — she wore iron chains.
Temple women, gifted to gods, but given to men.
Devotion became a disguise for sexual slavery.
But no one called it that.
Lajja stood there too — hiding behind religion, applauding patriarchy.

And then, there’s the kind of pain that’s stitched into skin — and silence.

In some conservative Muslim sects, young girls — sometimes as little as 7 — are held down while a blade cuts off the clitoris.
They call it purification.
A cleansing.
But it is what it is — a castration.
A brutal lesson that she was never meant to feel pleasure.
Because a woman who can feel… might also want.
And wanting, for them, is the worst kind of shame.

And Lajja? She stands right there — not weeping, not angry. Just watching.
Like she’s seen it all before.

But I truly met her when it came to me.

When my own wedding was arranged, and the conversation turned to “expectations.”
Furniture. Gold. Car.
I remember my fingers trembling. My heart felt small.
They weren’t just marrying me.
They were negotiating a transaction.

And I said no.
I said NO.
I called it off.

That night, Lajja visited again.
Not for them — for me.
People said, “Shaadi ke din se pehle mana kar diya? Log kya kahenge?”
What will people say?

Funny how no one asked — What if she had said yes and burned later in silence?

Lajja came the night I bled on my first period.
When the elders said, “Don’t touch the pickle.”
She came when I didn’t bleed on a bedsheet — and they questioned my “purity.”
She came when a man whistled at me in a public place, and my family told me to cover up.
She came when a friend got raped — and someone said,
“She shouldn’t have gone out at night.”

Lajja doesn’t discriminate — caste, class, age, or language.
She lives in jokes about alimony.
In whispers about divorced women.
In eye rolls at working mothers.
In silence when your boss “accidentally” touches your waist in a meeting.

Every time I rise — she tries to sit me back down.

But here’s what I’ve learned:

She is not mine to carry.
She never was.

The shame was never mine — it was just handed down, carefully stitched into rituals and respectability.

And now, I’m done wearing it.

If you see me now — bold, loud, tired yet still standing — know this:
Lajja aa toh jaati hai…
But now?

I don’t offer her tea anymore.
Because Lajja doesn’t come from within me…
Lajja aati hai — because of the society I live in.

  • Richa ❤
Indian Classics

🎬 Title: “Flat mein silence hota hai… Ghar mein Mumma.”

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(Tonight 8 PM – Evening Sip with Richa ☕ | Ek baat un sab ke liye jo ghar se door hain)

[Scene: Delhi. Wintery evening. Office almost empty. Richa is shutting her laptop, wrapping up for the day. Kabir (her teammate) walks in with his bag half open, still sipping chai from a paper cup.]

Kabir (smirking):
“Oye Richa di… ghar jaa rahi ho?”

Richa (shrugs lightly, without looking):
“Nahi yaar… flat jaa rahi hoon.
Ghar toh Bareilly mein hai… Mumma ke paas.”

Kabir (laughs, teasing):
“Haww! Flat aur ghar alag ho gaye ab?”

Richa (half smiles):
“Flat mein bas fan, bed aur fridge hai…
Ghar mein Mumma ka daant, roti, aur…
Rajma chawal ka woh extra spoon pyaar.”

Kabir (sips chai, quieter now):
“True that…
Main bhi jab se shift hua hoon Dilli,
ghar pe woh sunday wali chai nahi mili.
Mumma bina bole samajh jaati thi…
ki mujhe strong chai chahiye aur silence.”

Richa:
“Mere flat ka silence toh noisy lagta hai.
Aur Mumma…
roz 5 baar call karti hai.
Sirf poochhne ke liye — ‘kha liya?’
Main haan bolti hoon… woh bina kuch bole phone kaat deti hai.”

Kabir (nostalgically):
“Same same…
Meri maa bhi bas check karne ke liye call karti hai,
‘Beta, dinner ho gaya?’
Jaise phone nahi… ek heartbeat check ho raha ho.”

Richa (laughs slightly):
“Tujhe pata hai?
Main aur Mumma har baar Bareilly mein Urvashi wale golgappe khane jaate the…
Main samajhti thi woh meri craving poori kar rahi hai,
par aaj tak nahi pata chala ki Mumma ka favorite kya tha.”

Kabir (stares out the glass window):
“Meri Mumma toh bas wahi banati hai jo main bolta hoon…
Apni pasand batati hi nahi.
Bas mera favorite banake khush ho jaati hai.”

Richa (softly):
“Woh Mumma hi hoti hai…
apni pasand ko tum mein daal ke jeeti hai.”

Kabir (nods, with a smile):
“Tu lucky hai… Bareilly se hai.
Mere toh ghar waale Meerut mein hain…
Par Mumma ka pyaar toh pin code nahi dekhta.”

Richa (eyes soft):
“Bas dar lagta hai…
kahin time haath se na nikal jaaye.
Mumma hamesha kehti hai —
‘Office ki tension maar goli… ghar aa ja…
Chali jaaungi ek din bina bole… tu dekhna.’”

(Both silent for a moment. Lift arrives. They step in slowly.)

Kabir (looks at phone):
“Phone charge pe lag gaya…
par tu bhi lag jaa kabhi call pe…
Kabhi sirf ‘Mumma’ bolne ke liye.”

Richa (half-smile, but heavy-hearted):
“Flat toh aaj bhi wapas jaaungi…
par ghar?
Woh toh Bareilly mein reh gaya hai…”

[Text fades in as lift closes:]
Tonight, 8 PM — Evening Sip with Richa ☕
Ek kahaani un Mummaon ke liye…
Jo khud kuch nahi kehti, bas sab kuch de deti hain.

Indian Classics

🎬 Title: “Flat wapas jaa rahi hoon… Ghar nahi.”

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(Tonight 8 PM — Evening Sip with Richa ☕ Hinglish | A tribute to every Mumma ❤️)

[Scene: Delhi. Corporate office. Late evening. You’re quietly shutting down your system. Sounds of chairs moving, few murmurs. A colleague (junior male) walks over with his coffee mug.]

Colleague (lightly):
“Richa di, ghar jaa rahi ho?”

You (still focused on shutting your laptop):
“Nahi yaar… flat jaa rahi hoon.
Ghar toh Bareilly mein hai… Mumma ke paas.”

Colleague (smiling, playful):
“Flat aur ghar… same hi toh hai?”

You (pausing, softly):
“Flat mein AC hai, fridge hai, silence hai.
Ghar mein daant hai, roti hai…
aur Mumma ka pyaar — bina shabdon ke.”

Colleague (a little quiet now):
“Yeah…
Main jab hostel gaya tha na…
Mumma roz tiffin mein chhoti chitthi rakh deti thi —
‘Thoda dhyan rakhna, zyada so mat, zyada bhool mat.’”

You (smiling, nostalgic):
“Aww…
Meri Mumma bhi roz 5 baar call karti hai —
‘Khaana kha liya?’
Aur bina kuch sune, phone rakh deti hai.”

Colleague (with a small laugh):
“Unhe farak padta hai bas… bolne ki zarurat nahi padti.”

You:
“Exactly.
Aur pata hai…
Main aur Mumma jaate the Urvashi wale golgappe wale ke paas.
Main samajhti thi woh mujhe khila rahi hai…
par aaj tak nahi pata chala, unka favorite kya tha.”

Colleague (nodding, with feeling):
“Meri Mumma bas rajma chawal banati rehti thi mere liye…
kabhi nahi bola ki unka kya favorite hai.”
(small pause)
“Apna sab kuch toh hummein daal diya unhone.”

You:
“Tu samajh gaya…” (with a warm look)
“Yeh sab kehne ki zarurat nahi hoti, par jab koi samajhta hai na… halka lagta hai dil.”

Colleague (genuinely):
“Haan…
Tumne bola na — jab tak flat nahi pahuchti,
Mumma sooti nahi?
Meri Mumma bhi same hai…
Main der se call karta hoon toh keh deti hai — ‘Ab aaya na yaad?’”

You (smiling faintly):
“Pyaar ke style alag hote hain… concern wahi hota hai.”

Colleague:
“True that.
Tu Delhi sambhaal leti hai…
main Mumbai.
Par Mumma dono ki raaton ki neend same chura leti hai.”

You (light chuckle):
“Mujhe Mumma har baar kehti hai —
‘Office ki tension maar goli… ghar aa ja.
Chali jaaungi ek din bina bole… tu dekhna.’”

(Lift dings. They walk slowly toward it. Comfortable silence follows. Emotional heaviness without drama.)

Colleague (gently):
“Phone charge pe laga dena…
kyunki Mumma ki awaaz bina,
dono ka dil low rehta hai.”

You (softly, as you step in):
“Flat Dilli mein hai…
Par ghar?
Ab bhi Bareilly mein hi hai.”

[Fade out. Text appears:]
“Tonight at 8 PM | Evening Sip with Richa ☕
A heartfelt Hinglish story for every grown-up kid…
And for every Mumma, jinki duniya hum ho.”

Indian Classics

The Road to Healing: From Resignation to Self-Rediscovery

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Sometimes, life throws you curveballs, or in my case, a whole pitch full of them. It was a time when I felt like I was walking in circles at work, losing interest with each passing day. I had a steady job with Amazon, during those highly coveted day shifts. I thought I was doing alright—until one fateful day when I resigned, without any clear reason, just a gut feeling that maybe I was leaving one home to create another. I still don’t fully understand it, but I felt an urge to step away and forge a new path.

There’s something liberating about letting go of what’s familiar, especially when you have an incredibly supportive family behind you. My parents, my family, the ones who’ve helped me survive the worst of times—without them, I wouldn’t be here today. I can never thank them enough.

A Healing Pause: The Trip to Bhimtal

Life, for a while, seemed to fall into place. I took a much-needed break in August 2024. My family and I went on a holiday to Bhimtal, a quaint hill station, where the air smelled of pine and adventure. My cottage sat by a beautiful lake, and every morning, I’d stand near the water, feeling the breeze tangle in my long, lustrous hair. It was one of those rare moments when happiness wasn’t just something you felt; it was a physical presence, filling your chest. I remember standing there, closing my eyes, and letting it all in—grateful for the moment, for the air, for my family, and for life itself.

But little did I know, this feeling of calm was about to be shattered.

The Silent Battle: Dengue

I came back from Bhimtal refreshed and ready to face life. But sometimes, life doesn’t work in our favor. Soon after, I found myself in Gurugram, where things started to take a strange turn. First, my hands and feet began itching—thought I might be allergic to something as simple as gram flour, of all things. But the itch lingered. And then came the fever.

It started with 99 degrees, but by the time the day passed, it had soared to 104. The diagnosis came quickly: dengue. The virus that makes you feel like you’re slowly falling apart from the inside out.

There I was, in the hospital, all alone, when the first call I made was to my mother. I needed her. She always has a way of making everything better, even when nothing really is. “Come home, please,” I begged. And she did, along with my brother and my adorable nephew, who somehow always knows how to bring a smile to my face even when I’m feeling completely wrecked.

Home: The Sweetest Remedy

I made it back to Bareilly, but my recovery wasn’t instant. On the third day, I was admitted to the hospital with platelets so low they could barely be counted. It was a slow road to recovery, nearly six days of just sleeping, eating the most random but oddly comforting foods—like goat milk (which, to my surprise, actually tasted quite good!), kiwi, and coconut milk. I’d joke with the guests who brought apples, telling them, “Next time, bring kiwi instead!”

Eventually, I came back home, where I slowly began to regain my strength. The recovery was long, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t take a toll. My bones ached, my energy was drained, and I became hyper-aware of the gluten in everything. But hey, I was alive, and that was something to be thankful for.

The Hair Loss: A Silent Struggle

Just when I thought things were returning to normal, November came, and with it, a shock that I couldn’t shake off. One morning, I woke up, and there it was: strands of hair scattered on my pillow. I brushed my fingers through my hair and a few more fell. At first, I blamed it on the weather—after all, who doesn’t get a little “seasonal shedding”? But then the hair kept falling, and it wasn’t just a few strands anymore.

By December, half my scalp was bald. My once lustrous hair—my pride—was falling out, and I was powerless to stop it. I laughed it off on the outside, but inside, I was breaking. My mother and the doctor reassured me that it was temporary, but each day, it felt like I was losing more than just my hair. I was losing my confidence. The spark that once made me feel like I could take on the world seemed to be dimming with each passing day.

The Weight of Self-Doubt

It’s hard to put into words the feeling of watching yourself lose a part of your identity. My hair, something I had always taken pride in, was now slipping away—literally and figuratively. It was the one thing that had been a symbol of my confidence, and now it was disappearing, leaving me feeling exposed.

I wish I could express the pain of that quiet struggle. The one where I meet people and smile, but inside, I am consumed by a deep sense of shame. I’m not trying to be arrogant or distant. I just feel like I’m losing something of myself, and it’s not easy to face that every day. People say it’s temporary. The hair will grow back. But what do you do in the meantime when the fear of losing more keeps you up at night? When the little things that used to make you feel whole—like your hair, your appearance, your confidence—seem so fragile?

The Road to Healing

But here’s the thing: healing doesn’t happen overnight. Whether it’s physical, emotional, or mental, recovery takes time. And sometimes, it’s not just the body that needs mending but the soul too. There are days when I feel like giving up, when the weight of self-doubt is too much to bear. But then, I remind myself of the things that truly matter. The people who love me. The fact that I’m still here, fighting. The fact that I’m still laughing—albeit through gritted teeth—because life, despite its curveballs, is beautiful in its mess.

I don’t know what the future holds, or when my hair will grow back, but I do know this: I will find my spark again. Maybe it won’t be the same as before, but it will be mine. And that’s enough for me.

So, here’s to healing, to family, to laughter, and to the kind of love that doesn’t ask for perfection. Life isn’t about having everything together—it’s about learning to keep going, even when it feels like everything’s falling apart.

And maybe, just maybe, one day I’ll look back on this time and laugh. Or at least, that’s what I’m hoping for.

Richa ❤

By : Richa Mehndiratta, Fantasy writing by Richa Mehndiratta, History

In the silence of love, the loudest heartbreak echoes – Sahiba’s Perspective

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“Tere naam naal loki jod’de ne yaari
People associate your name with loyalty/committment

Mere naam naal jod’de gadaari ve
People associate my name with betrayal

Ajj vi mashook dhokhebaaz main kahawaan
Even today people call me a dishonest lover

Saukhi siweyan ch vi na main vichari ve
I can’t rest in my grave, such is my helplessness

Kehda das daag (3) ve main ishqe nu laaya
What stain did I put on love?

Tere layi main das hor ki kara, ve mirzeya
Oh mirza, what else could I do for you

Je tu mare naal main maraan
In your death, I have died too. “

I was never meant to be a prisoner of my own heart, but here I am. If they ever remember me, they will call me traitor, coward, heartless. They will say I did nothing while he bled — while Mirza bled out under the very sky we had once dreamed beneath. They won’t know that I loved him. That I loved him with a ferocity that would have shattered the world had I dared to speak it aloud.

My name is Sahiba. Daughter of a house that demanded loyalty above all, duty above all else. I was raised on a diet of obedience, whispers of power, and the relentless pressure to bend, to submit. The men of my family, they ruled with iron fists. And I? I was nothing but an extension of their will, an heir to the name of Jalal, a woman meant to stay quiet, to smile, and to serve.

But life, it finds ways of sneaking past even the tightest defenses. That was Mirza. A storm. A wild thing. He came into my life like a flash of lightning — bright, intense, uncontainable. From the first moment we spoke, I knew he would change everything. He was not bound by the chains that held me, not bound by the roles we were born to play. He was a man of freedom, and he showed me a world I had only dared to imagine. He made me feel alive — truly, madly, alive.

And I fell. I fell with every breath I took.

But we both knew the price. Nothing in this world is free, not even love. I was promised to another, my fate already sealed by the blood that ran through my veins. And so was he, bound by the weight of his own burdens. Yet we loved, desperately, like thieves in the night, stealing moments, kissing in the shadows, as though the sun itself would never rise.

And then, when it all came crashing down — when the men who sought to destroy us struck their final blow — I could do nothing.

He was there, lying in front of me, blood staining the earth beneath us. I could taste the salt of my own tears as they mingled with the dirt. His eyes, those eyes that had seen the world differently, those eyes that had looked at me as though I was more than just the woman I was born to be — those eyes flickered, dimming. And all I could do was watch.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t. I couldn’t make the choice, not then. To save him would have been to defy everything I had ever known. To save him would have meant to betray my family, to betray everything I had been raised to uphold. I stood frozen, paralyzed, with the weight of my loyalty to them crushing me, suffocating me.

He was dying, and all I could think of was what would happen if I crossed that line. If I defied everything for him. If I took his hand and ran, would we have lived? Or would they have come for us both, dragging us to the edge of the earth and beyond?

I made my choice.

And that choice was silence. A silence that I have carried in my chest ever since.

They say loyalty is what you do for the ones you love. But no one tells you that loyalty can feel like a knife in your soul, twisting deeper with every second that you do nothing, that you watch as the world rips apart the person you swore to protect. My silence cost him his life.

I know how they will remember me. I can already hear their voices, their accusations, their pity. How I didn’t move when he needed me. How I let him die.

But what they don’t know is this: I was loyal to him, always. Even in that moment. Even in my silence.

Because the truth is, I loved him too much. I loved him so much that I couldn’t bring myself to drag him into the darkness I was already drowning in. I couldn’t let him face the same fate I would have faced. I couldn’t let him be destroyed by my family’s anger. So I did nothing. And in that nothing, I lost him.

And after that night, after the finality of his absence, I couldn’t bear to stay. My soul — it withered without him. The walls of the world I had built around myself began to crumble, and I could no longer walk through the halls of the house I was born into. The house that was never meant to love me.

I wandered for days, though the days meant nothing. The world became a blur, all light and shadow. I could feel the weight of his absence, his last breath, pulling me into the abyss with every step I took. I was drowning — drowning in my guilt, my love, and my failure.

And then, one cold night, when the stars were hidden behind a veil of clouds, I laid myself down, beneath the same sky we had once shared dreams under. It wasn’t a decision. It wasn’t a choice. It was just the end that had always been coming for me.

They will say I died by my own hand. They will say I was weak. But no one will understand. No one will know the burden I carried, the love that tore me apart, the silence that ate me alive.

I am not asking for forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. But in my heart, I know the truth. I loved him — I loved him fiercely. And in the end, I was faithful to him. Always.

And that, I hope, is enough.

  • Writeup by Richa Mehndiratta

personal

November/December: The Quiet Winds of Change

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November/December: The Quiet Winds of Change

A couple of months ago, I found myself in Bhimtal, a peaceful town that seemed to wrap itself around my soul in the gentlest way. The quietness there made me pause and take a deep dive into my thoughts. I realized I was tired. Tired of the constant rush, tired of the monotony that the world asks you to follow. I didn’t want to be part of the endless cycle anymore, the one that keeps spinning without any real purpose.

Instead, I just wanted to slow down. I wanted to sip a cup of tea with my family, laugh with my parents, and share small, simple moments with my dog kids—especially my little one, Sheero. Those little paws and wagging tails were all I needed in that moment. In those quiet moments with them, I found peace. It was enough.

It made me realize that I didn’t need to be part of a world that constantly judges and expects. I didn’t need to follow the monotonous principles that demand we conform to everyone else’s idea of success, happiness, or even existence. Instead, I was ready to break the cycle, to let go of everything that was holding me back—whether that was people, expectations, or the toxic mindset of being judged and being judgmental.

2025 is going to be my year. A year of change, a year of freedom, and a year of being true to myself. It’s time to cut ties with the people and things that drag me down, and to hold close those who support, believe, and stand by me no matter what. It’s time for the real me to shine.

Now, as we slip into November and December, these months are a reminder of what I need to focus on: being sensitive and learning to let go. These months are about embracing the stillness. It’s a time to reflect, to feel the cool breeze against my skin and allow it to clear my mind. November’s cold air feels like a natural invitation to step away from the chaos, to just breathe and let go.

As I stand on the edge of the hill, the wind tugs at my long hair, sending it flying behind me. My brown eyes squint slightly, but I can feel something inside me shift. I take a deep breath, and my bosom rises and falls with each inhale, the cold air filling my lungs, then slowly releasing, carrying with it all my tension. I feel my plump lips relax, my long neck exposed to the chill, and in that quiet moment, I feel a strange sense of lightness. The air, the wind, the world around me—it’s all telling me to let go, to release everything that weighs me down.

In these months, I find myself more drawn to poetry, to the kind of words that stir my soul, that speak to the raw, vulnerable part of me that’s sometimes hidden under layers of everyday life. I feel the need to spend time with family, to be present, to enjoy the small moments that pass too quickly.

I imagine myself standing at the edge of a hill, the cool air rushing around me, my hair flying with the wind. My body shivers with the cold, but my mind begins to empty. All the negative thoughts, the regrets, the fears—they begin to fade away. In that stillness, I find clarity. I feel free.

November and December are about letting go—of expectations, of stress, of negativity—and embracing the quiet beauty of being in the moment. It’s about feeling the coolness of the air, the warmth of family, and the peace that comes with shedding what no longer serves you.

And so, as 2025 approaches, I am ready. Ready to live without the weight of judgment, ready to live for me.