it started as a pitter patter. then streaks cut shapes across the windows, splitting dust, separating particles of still earth. and then the rain gushed, cascading onto the ground like scattered marbles, thick globules of shattering glass. between short bursts of air the clouds heaved, rehearsing for the new onslaught. the storm is replenishing, they say. there will be new grass under the dewy surface. but from inside the house, with darkness looming above, the end seemed a distant memory.

Yes, I know, I’m late to the game. But that’s because, having watched season 1 and 2 of Happy Valley, I wasn’t much bothered about delving into season 3. Nothing new to offer, I thought. Standard terrestrial TV for an older, conservative audience (yes, I concede, assuming older correlates with…

I didn’t think I had so much condensed pain. It had been solidified, kept tight in a box somewhere. But then the heart warmed and the contents melted and now I feel the little bits of thawed liquid rise to the surface, the piercing shards of newly melted ice striking me. I want the pain to go away so I can hold it at a distance. Regard it. Put it back. I’ll collect it later, I say. But there is no later. Only now.

I know why I stayed with you. Because the alternative was loneliness. This kind - the aching in your bones, the starving desperation, asking "when will I be whole again?" And so I wait. Willing that someday I’ll lay myself to rest. Someday I’ll wake and there you’ll be, a warm reminder that life doesn’t have to be an empty cage, spent solitary, sequestered, silent, alone. So now I lament. Speak the virtues of asserting oneself, not knowing how long I myself will last. When will the hope run dry? When will life take its bitter course? I run up the hill, only to find that beyond is nothing but the same barren terrain laid open, as if to say, "there is nothing but me left".

This paper was presented at the 2022 Staff and Student conference at London Metropolitan University Between the 17th and 19th centuries, Britain had a policy of sending British born criminals to overseas territories as punishments for alleged crimes, often without fair trial and with little evidence proving their conviction. Sending…

It’s strange how fallible we are. I’d built up strength, like a tree digging deep into the soil for its roots. I’d grown fervent. Unfurled like a piece of string, stood firm, two solid feet in a soldier’s pose. And then I saw your name and I crumbled. Rippling cracks…

The problem with discussions of feminism in Bollywood is that they tend to argue that Bollywood is or isn’t feminist. My aim in this piece is therefore contentious: I’m going to suggest that Bollywood is neither feminist nor patriarchal but both. — Ganga, a dainty, doll-faced young woman wants to be a movie star. Every night she dreams of dancing alongside Dev Anand (a Bollywood idol of the 1950s to 70s), as his one and true love, gracing the silver screen with her elegance. One evening, her boyfriend excitedly waves train tickets…

Why the ‘cancel culture’ debate fails to recognise how European thought has erased (and continues to erase) whole cultures, histories and civilisations simply because they don’t fit middle-class European norms — The ‘cancel culture’ debate winds me up. Particularly when academics claim that they are afraid of expressing their ‘true’ findings for fear of losing their careers. …

Being told that things could be a lot worse shouldn’t prevent us from fighting for something better — In an argument about gender roles my aunt told me that I should count myself lucky because my parents give me greater freedom than most girls receive. Cue exasperated eye-roll. I’m 30. Unwed, but/and fucking 30. I do not need to be grateful for the fact that my parents don’t…