Vartika's World

I will always fall for the trap of trying. Don’t confine me in the prison of perfection. I want to dance with wobbly steps, trying to catch up with the rhythm of the song  and my inhibitions at the same time. I want to sing in a hoarse sound, where my notes are all over the place. I want to make art where a person also kind of looks like an animal. I want to make recipes just like my mom does, fail at them terribly, and end up creating a version of my own. It doesn’t have to be delicious. It just has to exist. Even if it is not my comfort meal, it is something that came from my conscience. I want things to get messy and then clean it all up, leaving some spots involuntarily; a reminder that nothing ever completely goes away. I want the things I create to carry a piece of me, a piece that is so innately me that I never question my own authenticity. I want my hair to be messy, just like my thoughts are sometimes. I want to wear lipstick even if it is smudged at the corners. I want to...

Just like you didn’t mean to burn the toast, life sometimes surprises you with outcomes you didn’t plan for, no matter how carefully you thought things through. You just have to go through life without a manual and figure things out as you go. Burnt toast has a bitter taste, much like the tough experiences in life that leave an unpleasant mark and linger longer than you'd like. But there is still a silver lining. Such experiences make you a wiser person. If it won't be bitter, you won't pay attention next time.  Even when burnt, parts of the toast can still be eaten. Similarly, even when life feels messed up, there’s usually something salvageable or a lesson to carry forward. You always have to look at a situation with a problem-solving approach rather than a victim approach because a victim mindset will only take you so far. The smell of burnt toast might snap you out of autopilot just like life’s “burnt” moments can jolt you into awareness and make you reconsider your pac...

The seasons keep changing outside, but in my room, it is always late September. A strange, stretch of time: neither summer nor yet winter. Just a long inhale that never gets to be exhaled. There’s only one portal to the outside world: a tiny window. It lets in slivers of light, moments of wind, just enough to remind me that the world is still alive. Just enough to keep me informed that it moves on with or without me. What about the door, you might ask? The door is not for me to use. It’s too much of an opening. Too much air, too many possibilities. Too much exposure. If I opened it, the fragile insect that’s been growing inside me for some time, that secret, that feeble trembling being, might not survive. This insect is strange. It keeps me sane and drives me mad at the same time. I don’t know if it’s my conscience, or my soul. But I do know this, it throws a new tantrum every day. And oddly, each tantrum gives me a reason to live just one more day. It thrives in the dampness of autu...

Lipstick smudges in the corners of the wilted pages of my favorite book tell a love story. One I ache to step into, to breathe its air, taste its grief, and suffer the horrors of actually living as a possible human being. My own life feels like that of a stone with a pulse, unmoved except when I live vicariously through the fictional souls crafted by real people whose own lives, weren’t enough to satisfy the tragedy of being human. So I’ve rented an apartment in fiction, tucked away in my head. I live there like a tenant, paying rent in illusions, wallpapering the walls with borrowed dreams to hide a void too vast and too dark to step into.

Dear Diary, Today, I tried making a recipe—just like Mum. I failed. Dear Diary, Today, I tried something new. It wasn’t perfect. But I savoured the process. And, truth be told, it wasn’t half bad. We spend our lives chasing perfection— Striving to get things “just right,” Holding our breath for the best possible outcome. But somewhere along the way, we forget: There is no such thing as the best. In theory, a cricketer in a T20 match could score 720 runs— Six runs off every ball. Perfect. At least on paper. But we don’t account for no-balls, wides, strike rotations, the chaos between deliveries. Life is just like that match. Wickets fall. People leave. Wide balls happen. And sometimes, those we thought were forever Turn out to be seasonal flus— Brief, burning, gone. Nothing is permanent. And there is no universal rulebook on how to live. No perfect method. No flawless recipe. The only way to live life right Is to live it for real. To show up, imperfectl...

On the walls of delusion in my mind,   There hangs a portrait of reality.   I often walk past it,   Sometimes stopping to give it a long, lingering stare.   But only from a distance I am intrigued by its details,   Yet overwhelmed by the chaos it brings.   This is the world I am meant to inhabit,   Yet how can I belong to it   When I am truly here,   Stuck between worlds?   A tap on my shoulder I turn to find a version of myself,   A whisper: “You don’t belong there.”   Now, I stand at the edge,   Caught between fighting my reality   And embracing the one I long to join.   I delay, but time never waits.   The moment is here,   I must step into the real world now,   Face its chaos head-on.   So I push forward,   Drawing closer to the reality I’ve feared,   Leaving behind a world of...