Published on May 7, 2026

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The Movie

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 7, 2026

The Movie

The VHS tape. It’s finally here. I ordered it a day ago, but it feels like I have been waiting forever. No doubt that it’s outdated, but it feels right – putting the cassette in the player is so different than just clicking a button on the remote. It’s still surprising to me how this place has tech from out there, but that doesn’t matter right now. I eye it apprehensively. I already know everything that’s in here, but I’m still scared. Yet, I take a deep breath, and insert it into the video cassette player, one that I bought just for this tape.

The TV screen lights up, in contrast to the dim room. It starts in a bright classroom called 6C, with colourful posters and a feelings chart, though the students thought they were too old for it. A short, curvy girl called Neena had developed an onslaught of acne.

“Oh god, look at your face!” Sanjana, the ‘popular’ classmate remarked. Already being extremely insecure, Neena’s eyes turned glossy.

“Don’t worry though!”

Sanjana exclaimed hurriedly, looking at her expression.

“Just follow Vivienne Clora on Instagram, and I swear, she’ll help you glow up in less than a week!” Neena thanked her and intently listened to Vivienne once she reached home.

“This skincare routine is PERFECT for glass skin, it’ll feel like magic.” Her acne lessened, but her self-hatred grew.

The movie cuts to when she was 14, just navigating becoming a teenager. She was a bit on the chubby side, as was her family.

“Oh look, the fatty’s here!” the boys pointed out. She cried herself to sleep every day. In period 7, when the boys were again laughing, Lyla approached her afterwards. Being the skinniest girl, Neena expected Lyla to bully her too, but she didn’t.

“Hey, don’t mind the guys, they’re always such a pain. Though Kiki Ito has a diet plan for weight loss on YouTube. It helped me a lot.”

She winked and walked away. Neena heeded her advice.

“Cut out half of you usually eat,” Kiki said through the tiny, bright screen. But her parents would knew if she did, so she found herself in the bathroom, retching all her meals out. She also did intense “Lose your fat in 1 week” workouts at home. They didn’t happen as fast, but they did work. Now she was less than 30 kg, but with this ‘prize’ came an eating disorder.

At 17, Neena overheard the conversation of a couple of guys in her class.

“You know, dead girls are prettier. They’re skinny, they’re pale, and they don’t even talk!”

Everyone in the group laughed at the ‘joke’. Was that really what the world wanted girls like her to be? Dead? Her self-starvation was driving her insane, fatigue making her screw up her exams. She’d sacrifice hours of her sleep in night skin-care routines, and makeup before school. And here, people were saying that she should just die instead? As if it was fate, she passed away four days later. The toll of beauty was too heavy on her. Her parents were howling in the funeral, leaving the rest of the guests silent. I watched her body, as slim as a stick, get cremated.

The movie ends with a jar, containing a pile of her ashes. My ashes. I’m Neena—or more accurately, I was her. This is the afterlife. A candle besides the TV snuffs out, leaving the place in darkness. The wax has fully melted into a puddle, so I couldn’t light it again. In the silence, I cry until my tears run out, grieving missed chances.

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Refresh

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 7, 2026

Refresh

I hit refresh. The screen of my old Dell laptop went blank for a second before returning back to the results page. I’ve practically memorised my roll number by heart after typing it again and again. My right hand was moving the mouse randomly, and my left hand was squeezing a stress ball at such intensity that I could’ve choked someone with it. I’m 10 minutes early to the actual release of the scores, since my body couldn’t handle the adrenaline.

Refresh. My WhatsApp notifications are bursting with frantic texts from friends and family. Then, of course, there were the Swiggy notifications, begging me to order some snacks. I usually give in, but not this time. Sorry, Swiggy.

Refresh. I lightly touch the dark circles under my eyes. The result of staying up day and night with a textbook, some highlighters, and exam questions. I had lost track of the dates, living and breathing only to study. Every step I took reminded me of it. From the high achievers board in school to the “How many chapters have you done?” texts from classmates.

Refresh. I started preparing 2 years ago. Surrounded myself with all the possible study material I could. My walls were filled with sticky notes containing random facts and motivational quotes. Highlighters, notes, and flashcards were strewn all over my table. I would study more than 12 hours a day, sacrificing my sleep and sanity. There was school, then this exam, and community service events I would do for profile building. I don’t know how past me navigated that horrifying mess.

Refresh. A few months into preparation, I cleaned my room and gave myself a “fresh new start”. Burnout had gotten the best of me, so I decided to take a break for a day. That day turned into a week. That week turned into a month.

Refresh. After three months of slacking, my mom forced me to pick up the pace again. “Do you want to be a failure?” she said. Determined to prove her wrong, I set out to study again. Only a little more… neat.

Refresh. While my friends were busy partying and being teenagers, I was stuck cramped in my room, staring at a screen or textbook. Words float across my head now, ones which I still remembered after the exam, due to hours of mugging up. It was better than before, but not what I wanted.

Refresh. Yet, the goal was to get into the top 200 All-India rank, or T2H. My parents told me so. My relatives told me so. My neighbours told me so. Looking at my cousin’s amazing scores, I told myself so.

Refresh. So I didn’t complain and kept my mouth shut. Just work hard enough, and I’ll please everyone. I’ll be happy once I get the rank, right? And studying did work. I topped all my past exams. All that’s left is this.

Refresh. My left hand abandons the stress ball, instead twiddling with my hair and earrings. Why won’t this result just come already? How long will I have to keep waiting like this?

Refresh. Time was moving like honey. My left eye twitches at the impatience building inside me. I’m overflowing with energy, ready to run 50 miles without breaking a sweat, but I stayed in my seat, taking in every detail of my laptop.

Refresh. The results were out. I looked up, eyes squeezed shut, scared to see the number despite waiting for so long. As soon as I lower my head, my future will be decided. Will my two years go to waste? Will I be a topper or disappoint everyone?

Topper?

Topper?

Topper?

…

NOT A TOPPER.

Rank 2025.

2025

2025

And my vision went black.

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Borders

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 7, 2026

Borders

Long before Booktok writers invented their striking fae characters, before Tolkien created Lord of The Rings, before mythologists wrote of naiads and mermaids, before Coleridge and Wordsworth began their search for the supernatural through their verse, there was a border.

They say no pirate dared dock their ships from the border’s harbour, no soldier thought twice before backing away and taking the longer route around, no king dreamed of fortifying territories five miles within the boundary.

What they don’t mention is how most writers couldn’t bear being so pain-stakingly close to magic and not witnessing it, so they tip-toed out at twilight, because no fear of banishment or death-sentences could crush the hunger for knowledge. They watched till the sun rose, but no amount of metaphors could capture the fluttering of the fairies’ wings or calls of sirens.

They don’t mention how no artist could sleep without copying the exact patterns of the mermaids’ scales, because no fear of the supernatural could suppress the passion for their craft. They sat cross-legged on the border, ignorant of the shiny burns that scarred their calves, but no amount of acrylics and oils could grasp the essence of this wonderland.

They don’t mention how no dancer was satiated without watching the dryads perform, without replicating their steps and graceful gestures, for no fear of punishment and retribution could stop them from attaining perfection. They spent hours mirroring the same step again and again, but no amount of practice could battle with the nymphs’ other-worldly charm.

In honour of the valiant efforts of these craftsmen, who revered and cherished he magic of the other side, whose arts were meaningless without this fountainof inspiration, the border was cast away. Slowly, but surely, the two worlds merged. Magic started seeping into the mundane, natural and supernatural existed in wonderful coalescence, reality and mysticism worked in perfect synchronisation.

You don’t believe me, you say? What about the blood of fairies that can be seen in ballerinas who hover mid-air, in the seven-year-old who never breaks a promise? Can’t you see the descendants of dryads in hikers who never trip over roots, the suburban grandmother who knows exactly which berries are poisonous and which aren’t, poets who seek comfort in the forest? The blood of mermaids in Olympic swimmers who cut through water like it’s second nature, in powerful rowers who’d rather fall off the boat than lose the race. The blood of shapeshifters in actors who slip from villain to hero with disarming ease, in friends who blend into every crowd. Blood of centaurs in soldiers who leave their families in honour of their country, without knowing if they’ll see them again, in the five-year-old who’d rather take a scolding than lie, in professors who enforce discipline and love in equal measure to their children.

This is where we are, teetering on the cusp of normal and paranormal, on the border of magic and reality, sometimes, leaning into the other side for a moment too long.

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A New Start

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 7, 2026

A New Start

I tuck my dark, straight hair behind my ear as I slowly walk towards the exit of the Heathrow airport, lost in my thoughts while muttering, “How different.” at everything. As a child, I always wondered how one managed to live across the ocean in another country, just for higher studies? I found it quite stupid. Yet, here I am eleven years later, living the same question I was never answered. Three years ago, I set a goal. A goal for my future-self that I would never back down from achieving, no matter how long it took.

Lost in the crowd, I somehow managed to finally get a taxi to the train station and hopped on. “It’s already dark…”, I whispered to myself. Figuring the timings and fares of the trains was not a piece of cake. After a few difficult minutes of chaos, at last I spotted an empty window seat in the train and sat in. I plugged my earphones and stared out of the window. As I’ve grown up, I’ve noticed that I think a lot. Being a quiet person, I found comfort in it. Currently, I feel like I don’t belong in this country. I came to London to pursue research in Neuroscience and Psychology. At first, it seemed like a long shot. But three years ago, something changed.

I started to yearn for knowledge. I really enjoyed writing research papers, essays and novels. Biology, Psychology and English were clearly my forte. “Ambitious people change the world”, reminded my mother every time I was demotivated. My passion for Psychology grew when I read Thomas Erikson’s books. His observations of people fascinated me. I was equally intrigued by Biology, so Neuroscience took the win. Ever since, I devoted my free time to find the best opportunities. Who would have known that three years later, I would be recalling that moment while making my way towards the campus of the best university in England? This experience is new to me, but I believe I’ll embrace it soon enough. I’ve always been an explorer, planning to embark on new journeys. As I saw the warm, yellow streetlights, I knew I was in London. Something about visiting new places interests me. I’ve always wanted to leave my own country and go somewhere fresh. The thought of being independent and enhancing my skills to the fullest excited me.

“There’s always room for improvement”, said my father. I agreed. I glanced out of my window, and saw an elderly couple on the street. They were entangled in each other, eyes full of love. I only saw them for a split-second, but my heart felt intense, comfortable.

On seeing that couple, a thought arose. “Today onwards, I am beginning something new in my life.” A slightly homesick feeling hit my guts. Was I really homesick? Amidst trying to understand my emotions, A voice heightened, “We’ve reached the station.” I hurriedly gathered my belongings and found a taxi and sat in the backseat. About 15 minutes later, the driver turned around. He looked at me with sheer disinterest and said, “We’ve reached. It’ll be 4 pounds and 75 cents.” I gazed out of my window.

To my surprise, I saw my dream university in front of me. Those huge but welcoming gates, campus lights twinkling, senior students studying on the freshly-mown lawn. I grinned; I laughed. The driver thought I was crazy. Even I thought I was crazy! I couldn’t believe how far I’d come. Day and night of searching for the perfect university, courses provided, scholarships needed and analyzing the climate to see if I could survive, it’s all worth it.

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The Museum Where it all Began

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 7, 2026

The Museum Where it all Began

There was a commotion in the halls as our professor led the way into the Art Museum. To visit this renowned museum, our university had been planning a trip for in the past three months. All of our class, with the professor in-charge is the first to reach. We enter the main hall, titled ‘Renaissance’. The walls on all four sides and the ceiling are painted a sapphire blue with streaks of golden. An illuminating chandelier is hung on the ceiling in its centre. There are three passageways exiting this room except the one we entered through. One to the left, leading to the ‘Sculptures’ room, and two to the right, each leading to the center for Indian and Japanese art shows held in the evening. Abstract artistries have been neatly hung in frames that decorate the walls. Students chatter amongst themselves, ignoring the details present in the room. Their loud voices test the professor’s patience.

“Silence!”, shouted my professor. A pin drop silence. Everybody solemnly obeys him, with nothing but the sound of birds heard chirping outside. The rain hits the ground in an elegance, varying overtime from drizzling and a thunderstorm. The smell of wet soil seeps in. A faint but delicious smell of chocolate cake also fills the atmosphere. It is coming from the museum’s in-built restaurant. I admire the paintings on the wall, the way their colours portray much emotion. Each shade of a single colour is unique. It stands for various different things. The most prominent colours in all of the paintings are — crimson red, olive green, mustard yellow, misty blue and horizon orange. There lies a not only large but also unique tapestry, boxed in a glass cage at the very center of the area.

Each artistry is from the ancient period, of the eighteenth or nineteenth century. The names of the artists are given below the frame in an italic’s font, with a short description of their early life and other artworks. I believe this room inspires me the most, although I haven’t been to the others. The intense colours and distinct forms of art have a highlighting effect. I never miss a detail when visiting museums, to understand the deep thoughts put into work. It fascinates me. “What must go on in the artist’s mind?” is one question I constantly ponder upon. I do understand that it is difficult to answer, but isn’t it something worth spending your time to research on?

There exist people who make a living out of such answers. In some museums, they explain the meaning behind the artwork and what inspired the artist. Unless quoted by the artist himself, I do not believe in it. Unexpectedly, someone taps on my shoulder. I turn around.

“Hi, I’m Robert. Would you fancy a walk with me?”

“Sure, why not.”

Robert Ashworth is my classmate. He has always been a quiet kid, never spoke to anybody in class. He always wore a jacket with a hood, so I hardly ever saw his face clearly. He has wavy brunette hair, similar to mine. His eyes are amber, with just enough brown in them. He looks about 5 feet 11 inches, give or take. I spoke to him for the first time about a week ago, for the details of this trip.

“I noticed you staring at each of the artworks immersively. Thought I may approach you to know

what you think of them, and if you don’t mind tell you what I think too.”

“I would like that. I’ve not met someone since a very long time who actually understands vintage

artwork.”