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The Memory Of A Clip That Lasts Forever

July 19, 2019
Filigree Hairclip

It was a warm winter month on the sidewalk that love met me. I walked into this space of unknown strangers. Sometimes some strangers just seem familiar. And in this unfamiliarity, I noticed him walking up and down. As ever unsure of myself; forever trying to not get too close to anyone, the fear of my gaping vulnerability is my self-defence. I remain politely formal. But he insisted on meeting my eyes. I was drawn into that warmth. I too looked into him, at him. Little knowing there would be much more than what would meet the eye, this time.

What followed was a trip into the unknown spaces of my life. He was more handsome than most others. He offered me coffee and biscuits. I told him I would get fat if I ate those cookies. He smiled and with that mop of so much hair on his head, he shook it and said don’t worry. Just eat it.

I smiled at him and took one biscuit and he insisted for at least two. We both laughed and I agreed. I had not been more comfortable in my skin in real long. Not seen so much honest decency in very long.

After my meeting got over. He insisted on dropping me to my car. To my utter horror I wanted this unspoken familiarity to end. He complimented my white kurta. I again thought why? Also told me his mother loves Pakistani serials. I thought thank god another mother fixated man. Just not my type for sure.

As we walked down. He spoke animatedly about his life that I must hear from him someday. He was also staring sharply into my eye with each sentence. He opened my car door and with all the chivalry that I so notice in men, he waved bye. We had exchanged phone numbers quite unashamedly. I was slightly taken aback at myself. As the car turned into the curb, I turned around to look and he turned around too. It was embarrassing.

I had worn my hair in a bun and secured the bun with a filigree hair design – only seen in the temple sculptures of Orissa and West Bengal. Strangely he noticed the little details. I fastened my hair tighter. Because suddenly I was aware that this meeting may turn into something that would prod me into myself & I wasn’t willing to meet myself, just now!

I thought I must share my work details and without a hitch we exchanged contact details. I kept reiterating that this is just another work contact. He got in touch too. But just like a game of cards I was constantly cancelling and he constantly agreed to my changed days.

I can’t narrow it down to the why and where and what made me choose this journey. But my universe above was smiling. I dialled his phone number and prayed he won’t answer and all will be well. But he answered and said he wanted to meet me. I cancelled once and yet he agreed to meet another day too.

The day came and I was casual as hell. It was an evening under the warm winter fading evening. We sat and he spoke. I only listened. He asked me what’s my story. I lied saying I have none. He prodded next day. I again lied.

It was a winter evening, the moon shining on my face with the candle between us. As a gush of wind blew the hair against my face, his long strong hands were on my face and he moved the strands from my face. I didn’t protest. It seemed just the right way for the evening to progress.

It’s been years since then. We don’t keep in touch any longer. But every moonlit dusk as the light kisses my face, I tie my hair with the filigree hair clip he gave. It’s hidden under the letters and whenever the unspoken grief of some lost moments arise, I look back at those moments of us. That never ever became us and remained forever you and I.

Clothing, Lifestyle

Sexy In Sequins

July 11, 2019

It was a hot summer noon in Delhi and we decided to meet over coffee. As I walked into the crowded snaky lane of Shahpur Jat, I recalled the little unknown spot in Delhi with a handful of shops. The growth of this place from the 90’s to today is the greatest sign of the changing fabric of the city. To me it was a realisation that the hours doesn’t stop for anyone ever. Time has a strange way of telling us that this is not your resting spot; it keeps moving just as you think you have settled into a constant and life shakes you out of your comfort zone.

As I walked into the familiarity of the old café with kettles hanging and beautiful home décor, I ordered my favourite black coffee and as I waited, I noticed each gentle well mannered staff in the store were from the north east of India. I immediately struck a conversation and I could sense that feeling of camaraderie and the simplicity found in hill folk. I am often happily mistaken for an Assamese or a Nepali. And I love playing along with my broken knowledge of both the languages.

As I settled into the familiarity of the city of my birth and was about to take my first sip of coffee, I looked up to see Sonam Dubal walking into the store. He looked the eclectic designer that he is. A fine cotton black kurta, glasses and a big bag and as he apologised for being few minutes late, he complimented me with an endearing honesty. I could see the frank appreciation in his eyes. I felt at ease and as we ordered for our cake, he spoke in Nepali to the staff and I joined in showing him my language skills. We settled into a known sense of not belonging to our current spaces yet not knowing how to return to the old. He told me he was from Sikkim. I told him I was from Shillong. We both took mouthful of cake bites and coffee. We spoke about our undying love for the East – the often neglected and not showcased craft of India’s extreme corner, often referred to as North East with little knowledge of each state and its art.

We finished our cake and walked up into his store. The store had tasteful designs and embroidery on western jackets and Ikkat shift dresses and a major influence of the Islamic design structure. I loved the Mughal inspired designs. And I gravitated towards a black Angarakha.




I tried on the Anghrakha and it was tad bit loose and Sonam promised to get it fixed to my size. Which was done and delivered to my hotel room that evening.

This Angarakha is a cotton muslin with black sequins border. As you wrap the garment you can tighten the sides with metal buttons resembling a Chinese traditional jacket button, again adding to the Indo-Asian silhouette of this design collection.

Sonam Dubal’s brand – Sanskar – is  the for the uber stylish woman who cradles both the traditional and the contemporary with equal panache. As I walk out in this garment with my black kohl eyes and a nude lipstick, I feel uber sexy in the way it wraps around my body. Just how love is or should be. Just gently wrapped in the warmth of your own skin yet against each other.

Clothing, Lifestyle

Dotty About The Dot Design

July 4, 2019
Polka Dress

It’s the summer noon and the mood is frisky. I look out into the bright sun. The summer wardrobe special is always the whites, pastels and the one polka dot dress. It takes me back to time. I feel light in my being and miss the caress of the warm wind against my shoulder blade. Polka dots are the easiest to wear. It needs no styling. It stands out among the milieu of the hardened stripes, the paisleys or the wild flowers. Polka dots are flirtatious, just the way I like it.

Dots are representative of the many moods of a woman. The traditional bindi is a dot. In Bengali we call it the teep. Here it represents the intuitive chakra of your body. We press against it to hear the intuitive sound clearer and sharper against the din or cacophony. There is also the three dots tattoo which I was born with on my forehead. It symbolizes the common prison tattoo that says “Mi vida loca” or “My crazy life”. It’s commonly done around the eyes or the hands. In my case I grew up with three moles in a trilogy of sorts on my forehead right in between my brows. As I grew older, the dots got darker and deeper. I knew the gods above had decided it would be my crazy life with its myriad shades of grey.

Polka dots were inspired by the Bohemia dance called the polka. It was in fashion as house dresses and garden dresses in the early 1920s. This captured the youth driven fashion look. I find myself still gravitate towards this unconventional arrangement on fabric, where each dot is accurately shaped and placed against each other in an array of a wild dance pattern.


Polka dress

Polka dress

Polka dotted dresses are also part of the Bohemian fashion style. Commonly referred to as Boho Chic. The early years of the 21st century saw the reflection of this unconventional style norm. Fashionable girls wore ruffly floral skirts with short tops and boots. And among them was the polka dotted dresses with cowboy hats, or flowers on the head like a tiara. It shouted out loud, the need to be unconventional, free in spirit and sexual freedom. This was not just a print, it was a lifestyle. The non-bourgeois gypsy girl was an expression of being themselves, feeling sexy in their artistic pursuits. It also meant not giving two hoots about fashion diktats.

Bohemian women were the grand synthesis of the feminine Wonder Woman. She didn’t need the metal bra or the corset. She roamed free, smelling the flowers in the forest, as she wore her femininity on her entire demeanour with an unhindered attitude.

And my polka dress is a reiteration of just that. I wish for every woman to not be pressured to fit into the mould of right and wrong, prescribed by a patriarchal mindset. As I wear the dress and feel the soft fabric over my skin, I know I will travel where my heart can hear the song of the butterflies and catch the blush of the morning dawn.

If I find myself on a placid cool lake with flowers growing on each side of its bank, I shall chase the ripples on the water and dip into its coolness with my polka dot dress soaking in the cool wetness of freedom.

Clothing, Lifestyle

The Entwined Twins Of Kota At The Weave Anthologies

May 2, 2019
Moody Mo

The May summer has the brightest sun pouring into every nook and corner of my room. The leaves look parched and the cry of the thirsty bird engulfs my being. As I run amok into the unending insane search of familiarity of childhood memories. The terracotta earthen sweet water and the constant movement of the fan above my head. I am woken with the pitch of sounds, smell and the heat of summer, yet again I am awash in its poignant soft evening rays. The setting sun just falls lightly on my lilac Kota saree from The Registry Of Sarees. I feel all woman in it’s soft drape over my body.

This saree is benign in the summer months. The lilac is softer than the flowers soft bloomed petals and the yet to bloom ones of my garden. I wonder what took me so long to reach The Registry Of Sarees. Here I was in wonderment and divinity of the weavers love story with its muse. Here the Venus is the soft check woven Kota with block prints in gold.

We have the Jugalbandi in Indian Classical music. Jasrangi is the classic form of Jugalbandi. The two singers in this confluence of voice and raga gives prominence to the Ma note of the female voice and Sa of the male voice.  Weave Anthologies did just that in the curated exhibition, bringing together the Mysore prints into the Kota weave of Rajasthan. The perfect Jugalbandi of weave and print.

Kota saree

Kota Weaves

The artisans on behalf of The Registry Of Sarees went into the clusters of the Rajasthan Kota Doria weavers and created their confluence of South Indian prints with the chequered weave of the light Kota saree.

The Kota is called the Masuria. They were originally woven in Mysore. A general in the 17th and 18th century in the Mughal army by the name of Rao Kishore Singh brought the weavers to Shada a small town in Kota. These sarees were called Kota Masuria.

At this eclectic curated event by the Weave Anthropologies, history is being repeated and replayed again. I was staring shamelessly at the collection of Jamdanis, Kanjiveerams, Kota and more. The dyes are natural, earth-conscious and the sheen of the fabric is pristine.

If you love your weaves and the feel of natural dyes over your skin, please head to the curated show at The Registry Of Sarees, Research And Study Centre, Domlur on the 4th Of May, 2019, 11.00 am to 7.00 pm.

I gifted myself the light Lilac Kota. Haven’t fallen in love in long, with the sheer gauze like the softness of this fabric over my body.

It reminds me of the heritage of Indian arts and crafts and crusaders like The Registry Of Sarees. It makes me believe, the lost, sad sound of the clanking of weavers creating magic on yards of pure fabric won’t perish too soon. It shall continue its song of love, hope and beauty.

I believe there are many who will still uphold this tradition forever, of wearing handloom woven fabrics. Because as you buy a Saree you are continuing the dream of a weaver, who many times feels bereft without the constant use of his hands on his weaving wheel. This is their livelihood to create art on fabric. And I am an eternal optimist.

Clothing, Lifestyle

Rare In Rareism

April 26, 2019
Moody Mo

It was a WhatsApp message from my friend Akshika and a missed call. After long I was excited, smiling and curious. I was returning from London after meeting my son and one such evening as we ate the truffles and the liver pate’, we spoke about his childhood friends. We laughed hard recalling how silly and adorable they were. In our conversations what kept coming up was Manish Uncle and Akshika aunty. Manish uncle who taught him to get rid of his polyester pants that I couldn’t. So a thank you to Manish there. There was no way in hell I would miss talking to Akshika aunty as stored by my son on my phone.

I landed back in Bangalore and called her. Akshika told me that she has finally begun what she has always dreamt of. She loved the art of dressing and wanted to extend her passion towards a more meaningful journey. I was elated and extremely happy for her. We decided to meet and she said she would pick me up to take me to her studio.  She wanted me to wear her designs. I was humbled to say the least and moved to tears with her candid appreciation of me.

Her brand is called Rareism. Which reiterates that “you are rare”. I was stunned and gobsmacked watching her collection in her aesthetic space. There was clothing for one and all. Her designs are trendy for a curvy woman and for a young lissome girl too. The colour palette was international with cuts that were flattering and comfortable.

Akshikha Poddar

Akshika Poddar

I just stared at the racks of design and the beautiful young mother Akshika, with eyes that shone of hope and success, a friendship that spans over a decade of being mothers to growing boys and our own personal emotional growth too. Her designs were eclectic and extremely wearable. There was Akshika in each and every design. Her honesty and love shone through it all.

I choose this Pintuck tunic to wear over my denims and sometimes my skirt. It was a pristine white with a cowl neck, it fits like a dream. I preened in the mirror and she said “you love white, don’t you? Just like me.” We smiled together and in unison said oh yeah!

She told me fashion is for each one of us. She chooses her cuts and designs with her fabulous all women team, because she knows a woman and her moods and her insecurities and her dreams.

As I get ready to go for my meeting, I can feel the softness of the fabric and the pride of watching my friend’s brand on me. I did feel rare in Rareism.

Tucks are as new as the 19th century. Small tucks and especially this multiple parallel tuck called the pintuck is the ornamentation on this pristine white cotton fabric. Minimalist and Stylish.

As I tuck my hair behind my ear and wear my pintuck tunic.  I know that we as women, all dream a common dream. And only the winners and leaders take their dream forward with resilience and many unshed tears.

I knew Rareism is raring to go and I will sit and watch Akshika march on, raring towards her destination and dreams. And watching her journey and her brand evolve is a heartfelt emotion.

If this isn’t happiness, what is?


1426 In My Lunisolar Calendar

April 14, 2019
Moody Mo

It’s that time of the year again. When the roots come barging into my being. I never knew how it had such a stronghold in the essence of me being me.
Today is Poila Boisakh, the Bengali new year. To most others its ludicrous to celebrate new year in April. But to me it is a celebration of being with my quintessential Bengali parents and relatives who won’t stop discussing the freshness of a fish or the difference between the coveted Padma River Hilsa versus the Ganga Hilsa. We also talk about the latest films while lamenting the lost glory of Ray, Ghatak and the Sens.
As I sit among them we are transported into Calcutta. The shopkeepers today have started a new ledge book as the tram moves slowly through the April summer roads of my soul city. The Ganga flows unhindered towards an unknown gushing of new tidings. The lone rickshaw puller knows today is a bad day for business, because most are busy cooking and playing old Bengali songs.
I watch detached yet I know deep down how attached I am to being a Bengali. Speaking my language of love, eating my comfort food and arguing that businessmen don’t create a nation or society. It’s always the thinkers, poets, artists, musicians and academicians who bring in the new wave of thinking towards a progressive society. This is as Bengali as it gets today. Tomorrow I will be the cosmopolitan woman that I am…but tomorrow can wait.
Subho Poila Boisakh


Moments Of Epiphany

April 1, 2019

As I looked out of the window, the strong iron bars that went crisscross over the mesh stopped me from forcing myself out of that boundary into the horizon. This had become home. I often sat and recalled the lost tunes of childhood, where it was an unending path ahead. I could manoeuvre into any hidden mountain creek and always found myself in a clear stream of reason & love. This probably is called growing up.

Growing up to understand that what we desire as we grow older may not always help us experience ourselves in an all-encompassing way. We forget those little spaces that need nourishment and nurturing. I had forgotten to nurture my early morning sitar Riyaz hour. It was meditative and my all-encompassing existence was in those ragas that gave me peace and familiarity. Ma had bought that sitar for me from her Provident Fund. She always dreamt big for me. I remember she bought the sitar from a music store in Darya Ganj in Delhi. Fixed my music lessons and monitored my progress like a hawk. She too woke up every morning at 5.00 am to hear me play. I never realised that she was living her dreams through me. Today, as I pen these thoughts I realise she has also passed her gift of words to me. She loves to write in Bengali. That evening, I stood against the mesh, holding on to the iron bars and like always thought for everyone, forgetting to think of myself.

I realised that over the years, I had placed my heart at the feet of all my family members. There were moments when I coiled to think that I did relish the thought of being far away from all this. This constant shout out for a home that needed attention. With ailing elders, the household was like a prison without visible walls. Those invisible walls were strengthened over time. There were times I felt I could fly out and feel the open air on my face. I pushed upwards to be hit on the head by the ceiling wall. It hit hard and I was awakened to the stupid thought. Like so many of us, who flutter inside the cage, unsure of whether our wings have the strength to take on the unknown skies. Skies that doesn’t promise you even weather. There will be torrential rains, drenching you in its fury, there will be a haunted moon, where you would bury your head in fear.

As I touched upon those thoughts. I could hear the pressure cooker whistleblowing downstairs in the kitchen. I knew one more whistle and the rice would be overcooked, then everyone would complain at home. I spoke to the skies and the iron cage. I spoke with compassion and told the clouds to come back again on another sunny day when I can leisurely talk to them. Ask them where they lived? Where they rested for the night. When rain takes baby steps does it cradle into its bosom? Does the cloud hold it or let it go? Maybe today isn’t the day for my answers. I know soon the householders would stop noticing and I would be able to continue my conversation freely with my friends, who roam freely in the skies.

The freedom that we all desire, covet and remain in its quest.


No Chains Can Chain Me No Cage Can Capture Me

March 7, 2019
Moody Mo

I just switched off the pause button inside my head. The unbridled thoughts of years came gushing out like river that been halted midway in its mad flow. The big wall that stopped the gushing of the clear stream was an unspoken need for acceptance and acknowledgement from sources outside my being.

Recognition of the being was the toughest part of this shift in my journey of knowing myself. The fear and the thoughts were numerous of others but myself. Forgetting self as a woman was easier than acknowledging my hunger of spiritual connections from my circle of life. The friends, the spouse, the child and each and everyone who tried to calm my tornado of emotions. They were unaware of how I was dying a slow death from inside. Walking the line and pleasing others everytime. They tried to tie my mouth, tie my hands but couldn’t tie my wild heart and soul. It was raging to break free from my rib cage. Suddenly it was this utmost hunger for freedom. I no longer wanted to ask for permission for my thoughts. Even your thoughts are conditioned. I struggle with this inner voice where success and productivity is measured with a monthly salary. It been years since I earned. And the truth is my sense of identity arises from what I do as a professional. All social gatherings I am asked the same stupid question by “so called” educated emancipated individuals, What do I do for a living?

I draw a blank there. I was nurturing a home and a child and feeling the stretch marks on my tummy. I knew I had a journey in that texture. I in a dim voice said. “I was looking after home and child.”

Fashion Blogger

Fashion Blogger

Most lost interest in speaking to me. Then to bring attention of myself. I spoke about the past.

Now when I tell them I write a blog. They ask but that’s just a hobby? Hey no! I write because I am hoping someday some artists get recognition. And my words touch your soul. It’s more than a hobby. This is my zen.

Most things I found at the dusk of my life. The people of the past ,connections and conversations were lifeless like the dead butterfly before it could turn into dust.

Have you seen a dead butterfly lying listless on the flower? It came searching for the nectar at its most toughest, slowest flight from life. And like the listless butterfly It was a mirage that I surged towards. Knowing well the fireflies would die in the lies of the flickering flame that was so inviting. It was forbidden and like the firefly I was just gravitating towards the death of the old me.

I just found my place under the sun, spreading my wings and not confined to the closet, where my emotions and speech is no longer measured with patriarchal society rules. I will break the stereotypes as I surge ahead. My place is not next to your shoes. It is in my boots that will march unhindered, unstoppable like the storm brewing in my heart and the untamed seas.

Clothing, Lifestyle

Frida Kahlo And Her Refusal To Accept The Rules

February 20, 2019
”I hope the leaving is joyful; and I hope to never return” 

Frida Kahlo was an iconic artist from Mexico who painted portraits, of pain and passion. Women all over will remember her till time to come, for her unashamed rebellion against the norm. She had polio as a child and nearly died in a tram accident. During that time, with a broken rib and multiple fractures, she painted her anguish on to the canvas. She took Mexican folk art to a world platform with her attitude on her sleeves. Feminists world over lauded her for her unconventional choices.

Her view on sexuality wasn’t restricted with what society deemed right and wrong. She loved deeply and was hurt deeply, in her multiple relationships with men and women. She grew as a person to become a better lover, artist and celebrated every moment of her failing and falling. When we say beauty is skin deep, which holds true for her because she is known for flaunting her facial hair, her uni-brow and carried her limp with style. She chooses to wear Mexican weaves and art on her clothing. She met the much married Riviera Diego, an artist par excellence, who taught her to paint. She later married Diego and became great friends with his wife. While in the relationship that was tumultuous and full of passion, she found her art. They were both artists who loved Mexico and while being married to each other were not scared to experience love and life with others. Diego was her anchor and she was his.

 Frida Kahlo

Frida Kahlo

Frida’s flowers on her head were like a crown that she wore. They were symbolic of her free nature, her free style. She truly embodies that style is not restricted to trends in fashion. It is what you make out of your choice in clothing that becomes your statement. A statement, which you eventually choose as your external identity. She wore Mexico all over the world with pride.

I recall one chilly nippy winter month on my visit to Paris; I read that there was a museum displaying Diego and Frida’s art. I wasted no time in booking the tickets for the show. Crossed over the river Sienna, the bridge which was filled with locks that lovers had put on the bridge and threw away the keys into the river with a promise to be forever together.

My little boy asked me if I too wanted a lock and I replied “no”. I held his grubby little hand in mine, feeling the wind on my face and in my heart I knew we all break promises. Relationships that do not celebrate the evolution of one another remain stunted like the stale odour of a dead horse being flogged to ride and move.

I picked my tickets, grabbed my black coffee and croissant and walked inside the gallery. Diego’s art was sublime, whereas Frida’s art had her anguish all over the canvas. Her aborted children, her bedridden state of wanting to break free yet confined. Her art was full of pain and also a celebration of that growth which comes out of that pain. I am drawn to anything that has Frida Kahlo on its cover. I feel her energy embody my rebellious mind.

Obedience to society and its conditioning. I know, it’s a long battle for women to be sexually free. But I have hope…

Accessories, Lifestyle, Travel

The Lull On The Tranquil Dal Lake

January 28, 2019

Once you travel to J&K in India, you know there cannot be a more humbling experience than standing against those mighty pine trees. You look up to the mountains and realise you are a mere speck in the grand scheme of things of the Universe. I am dumbfounded as I realise all the hurt and the prejudices I have nurtured is actually stupid and inconsequential. Mountains teach us resilience, and as most poets and writers have quoted “if there is paradise on earth, it is here”.

Kashmiri cuisine, the shawls and the pheran are popular among the winter wardrobe fashion diktat of North India. The beauty of the Kashmiri women is known and celebrated all over. They are divided into the Pandits and the Muslims. You recognise a married Pandit woman with the Dejhoor in her ears. It’s is a beautiful gold earring that hangs delicately on her neck with a gold chain. It is one of the most beautiful pieces of jewellery that is worn by the Kashmiri Pandit women.

I navigated my way through the valley of Kashmir and was spellbound with the untouched beauty of the state. Naturally well-built men and women smile at you. Their porcelain complexion with blushed cheeks is a clear indication of the unpolluted air and water of the Dal Lake. This was the time when the Pandits and the Muslims lived peacefully in the valley. The evenings saw an exchange of Kahwa between neighbours, singing songs of the poetry of Kashmir and the flowers of the valley. But whoever says anything is permanent. The valley renewing its shaky history of wanting to be free from India. The once peace-loving Kashmiri was scared of her own neighbour. The tea shared with Muslim neighbours started to change to hatred. Slowly, the Pandits started leaving the valley. They left their homes, their pride and belongings. Looking back seemed daunting. And the once peaceful valley resonated with gunshots and Pakistani flags being hoisted from buildings. The curfew, gunshots, dead bodies of young men were the norm. Media was abuzz with crying mothers, wives and children over the death of their loved ones. Those rosy cheeks were covered in tears. Delhi saw an exodus, once again, with the Kashmiri Pandits fleeing their home state into the makeshift refugee camps.

I accompanied my Kashmiri friend into the refugee camps with blankets. The exodus of people having lost their humanity and living as rats huddled together in those camps. I tried hard to swallow my tears, but it wouldn’t stop. I still recall a pregnant woman with the Dejhoor in her ears wanting to tear it off.  She wished she never returned to the valley to get married to the man her parents had chosen for her. She was living in London and returned to this future. I had no words for her pain of having lost her freedom, her space and her ability to be free.

It has been years since I left Delhi and only a few years back found large homes in Pamposh Enclave where the Pandits were giving plots to restart all over again. I saw those homes and knew there was a pain in each of those bricks that had been used to build a life all over again.

I searched for the Dejhoor in silver and something that did not require me to pierce my cartilage to put it on. And voila at an exhibition I found the silver clip-on Dejhoor. I wasted no time in picking it up, then spoke to the designers who had created it. They reaffirmed it was a Kashmiri influence.

My silver Dejhoor signifies the collision of the mind and the heart. I can’t reach out to the lost young pregnant woman who wanted to tear her Dejhoor in those moments of despair. But, I know that all of us women are bound with beautiful adornments and sometimes we are prisoners of it. Yet we all seek freedom.


#Kashmir #traveldiaries #KashmiriPandits #Dejhoor  #traditionaljewellery #refugee #nature #DalLake #tranquil #beauty