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Spent the whole shoot in lace and nothing else, and some of it even happened outdoors where anyone could have walked past. There's a video in here too where my hands stop being patient. Unlock it and tell me which frame undid you first.
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Everyone's still out dancing their nine nights — I came home, kicked off the anklets, and let my hands finish what the night started. There's a whole pack of what happened next, and one of the videos shows exactly how little patience I had left. Unlock it and tell me which frame you'd have begged to see.
First night of nine, done — the bangles made it home, most of the rest of the outfit didn't. My feet have officially resigned. Tell me which night you're claiming.
Sunday lunch is on the stove and the blouse strings lost their fight somewhere around the second tadka. The saree's holding on by habit alone. Come eat with me?
There's a DJ set in Lower Parel tonight and I promised myself I'd rest up for it — instead I'm up before the city, practicing knots on my own thigh. Tell me I'll still be standing by the last song.
Intermission at the concert hall and this washroom mirror is giving the stage a run for its money. The dress survived the auto ride, barely — tell me if the second half is worth going back in for.
Nine nights of garba start soon and I'm already two blouses deep into choosing. The skirt won, the blouse strings are still losing. Tell me which colour you'd want me in for the first night.
The big food festival in Bandra is this weekend and my notes have somehow turned into three pages of cheese stalls and one very distracting detour. Tell me which stall you'd drag me to first.
Perfume on, everything else off, and sleep is suddenly the last thing on my mind. Still up? Come keep me company.
The city is still dark and sleep gave up on me, so I stopped pretending my hands were going to behave. Nobody's awake to catch me like this. Tell me you are too.
The festival playlist is still going in my room and the saree never made it to the chair. Come take the phone from me.