We all need to eat

We all need to eat

I am not digestible

Too raw

With flesh as pungent as pine cones

She’s smooth sailing skin

And I’m the storm that you all fear

I worship her

And punish me

But why?

How can it simply be

Because she’s smaller than me

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I was her but she’s not me

At least not anymore

My jealousy is inward

Food should be a right

But it is a privilege

Our humanness is a privilege

Our humanness is questioned

When we are not the same

If I starve myself

Would anyone care

Or do I not deserve to eat

Because now I have weight to spare

Why do we need to take up less space

To be taken seriously?

Drishika Kar, a 21 year old from Bhubaneshwar, India, is creating music… for those who feel deeply, and it’s something she genuinely believes in. As she speaks about songwriting, it becomes apparent that her relationship with music has always been intensely personal, long before it became public. The memories, the vulnerability, the serenity that washes over one as they listen to her music.

When one of her listeners messages her that her song ‘Taufaa’ comforted her during the recent breakup, drishika felt those words, “I felt so emotional because these are songs that I write to comfort myself. I write it about, um... Like, some are from personal experiences. Others are from, like, observations from other people's life as well. But at the end of the day, it's, it's something which is coming out of me.”

Drishika’s songs carries traces of longing, grief, affection, insecurity and the countless unnamed emotions that exist between love and loss- love, not being just the romantic one, but including the platonic, filial, etc.

Speaking to Drishika felt less like interviewing an emerging musician and more like sitting across from someone who has spent years translating feelings into language because ordinary conversations were never enough. Throughout our conversation, she returned repeatedly to one central idea: music, for her, exists as a form of emotional companionship. It is not merely about melodies, streams or visibility. It is about creating something that reaches another person exactly when they need it.

Fresh out of college, Drishika currently finds herself standing in an unfamiliar stage of life. For the first time in years, there are no lectures to attend, no assignments waiting to be submitted, no rigid structure dictating how her days should unfold. “I just graduated from college last week” she laughs, before acknowledging that the transition has left her feeling strangely blank. “I didn’t realise college took up so much time.”

Yet beneath that uncertainty lies excitement, because music- that one constant she has carried through every phase of her life- can finally occupy the centre of her attention. She speaks about wanting to pursue it fully, not as a side passion hidden between responsibilities, but as the life she actively chooses for herself.

Interestingly, Drishika’s journey into music does not resemble the polished narratives often associated with artists. She is refreshingly candid about the fact that she was not a child prodigy. “When people say that I’m naturally talented, it makes me laugh because I’m really not”.
Unlike musicians who trained rigorously from early childhood, she taught herself to sing gradually over the years. Writing, however, arrived much more instinctively.

Growing up in Bhubaneswar (Orissa, India) in a family deeply connected to music certainly shaped her artistic sensibilities. Her father frequently sang around the house- Kishore Kumar classics, old English songs, fragments of melodies woven into everyday life. Her parents introduced her to a wide range of music from both Indian and Western traditions, and although she always loved music, she never initially imagined herself becoming an artist professionally.

What she did do, however, was write. Secretly.

For years, nobody knew she wrote songs. Not her friends. Not even her family. The songs existed entirely for herself, scribbled out during emotionally overwhelming moments, carrying what she jokingly calls “very emo, very embarrassing” lyrics about the things she was struggling to process internally. There was no intention of releasing them publicly. Songwriting was simply the only way she knew how to comfort herself.

That emotional dependence on music deepened during lockdown, a period she describes as particularly difficult personally. Somewhere during those years, she realised that music had become essential to her survival. “No matter how busy I am, I have to dedicate at least a few hours of the day to music or I’ll go completely insane” she says, laughing while still sounding entirely serious.

Despite recognising how important music was to her, fear delayed her from speaking openly about it. She worried about judgment, rejection and whether pursuing music seriously would even be considered realistic. “Is this really what I want to do? Am I good enough to do it? Will people care enough to listen to my music?” she recalls asking herself repeatedly.
Eventually, she gathered enough courage to tell her parents, only to discover that the support she feared losing had existed all along. They encouraged her wholeheartedly, reminding her that passion alone would not sustain a career, but dedication and persistence might.

That support system, she says, became foundational.

Throughout the conversation, Drishika repeatedly dismantles the romanticised perception people often hold about creative careers. Behind every release, every visual, every beautifully produced song, exists an enormous amount of unseen labour. She describes spending months working on a single track, refining demos, coordinating with producers, recording vocals, conceptualising visuals, and balancing all of it alongside college life.

Her first song began production in January and was released only in June. Even that timeline, she insists, was relatively quick.

“The songs write themselves” she explains while discussing her creative process. “The moment you force songwriting, it sounds horrible.” Unlike production schedules or studio sessions, songwriting cannot be manufactured on command. Sometimes songs arrive within hours; sometimes they just linger unfinished for months. Creativity, according to her, requires patience more than control.

One particularly fascinating aspect of her process is her relationship with vocal production. At a time when heavily processed vocals dominate much of contemporary music, Drishika strongly prefers retaining the rawness of her natural voice. She speaks about Auto-Tune and vocal correction, refusing simplistic criticism while also emphasising that technology should never replace practice.

“You still have to practise and make your vocals as good as you can”.
Before recording sessions, she spends days repeatedly rehearsing every line so that the final performance already carries the emotional and technical precision she wants. Most of the processing in her songs, she says, remains minimal because she wants listeners to hear something that still feels human

Her emotional connection to her music becomes even more evident while discussing Daur, the title track of her EP. Although listeners often interpret it as a romantic heartbreak song, Drishika sees it differently. For her, Daur is about grief in its broadest form… the ache of losing people who once mattered deeply, regardless of whether that loss is romantic, platonic, familial or emotional.

“There are so many kinds of love, it’s not just romantic.”

That perspective literally shapes the entire emotional landscape of her work. She leaves her songs open-ended enough for listeners to attach their own memories onto them.
Some people think about former partners while listening; others think about friends, family members or versions of themselves they no longer recognise.
She recalls receiving messages from listeners who associated her songs with friendships they missed or emotional wounds they never properly addressed.

For Drishika, those responses matter far more than numbers.

“I want my music to reach people who don’t have words to say”.

This exact intention also explains why releasing Daur felt so emotionally difficult for her. Recording such personal material in front of her parents was deeply exposing. Yet she also understood why the song needed to exist publicly. Grief, after all, remains one of the most universal human experiences, even if people rarely articulate it directly.

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Some of the lighter moments during the interview revealed equally important parts of her personality. She laughs about awkwardly filming music videos in crowded public locations while strangers watched in confusion.
She jokes about forcing her parents to pretend to be surprised when they gifted her the exact keyboard she had requested repeatedly for two years.

She speaks enthusiastically about Taylor Swift, crediting her as the reason she picked up a guitar in the first place. “I saw this girl with curls and a sparkling silver guitar and thought, ‘I want to be that girl’ ” she says, smiling.

Her admiration extends beyond Western artists as well. She speaks passionately about Mohit Chauhan, KK and Sunidhi Chauhan, particularly admiring artists whose voices retain individuality rather than sounding technically uniform. That appreciation for imperfection and uniqueness mirrors her own artistic philosophy.

Towards the end of our conversation, the discussion turned inward once again. When asked what she would tell her younger self, Drishika became visibly emotional.

“I grew up as a very insecure child” . “I had people around me telling me I wasn’t good enough, and I believed them.”

Looking back now, she wishes she could reassure that younger version of herself with firm and greater kindness. “You are good enough the way you are” , the firmness, calmness, and the utter determination that went into that statement; it made it extremely clear, that Drishika meant each and every single word.

Perhaps that is what makes Drishika Kar such a compelling artist at this stage of her journey. She is not presenting herself as someone who has conquered every insecurity or arrived at complete certainty. Instead, she exists openly within the process of becoming- creating music through confusion, self-doubt, affection, heartbreak, hope and resilience all at once.

And maybe that is precisely why her songs linger long after they end, feel as if you’re floating on a cloud of gentleness mixed with pangs and twinges of grief all over.

Drishika Kar in exclusive conversation with Niharika Jain, Founder of The Chai Magazine

To watch the whole interview: Click here for the youtube video.

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if you ever go through my pictures like I do,

if you pause for a second when you hear my name,

if you ever wonder if I think of you like you do.

Time has been passing,

the seasons changing,

the flowers falling,

but the memories aren’t fading.

I miss you, your laughter,

your silly comments,

your rage towards people who did me wrong.

The afternoon when you fell asleep on my shoulder,

the shared ice cream,

the borrowed sweater,

the last time I said bye,

they aren’t fading away,

and a part of me hopes they fade away forever

cause it hurts so much,

But another part of me hope it stays

cause you are worth the pain.

And if you do,

if you think of me like I do,

if you ever go through my pictures like I do,

if you pause for a second when you hear my name,

If you ever wonder if I think of you like you do,

then I want you to remember,

that I live a street away,

that I am a call away,

waiting for you.

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About The Poet

Akshara is a 16 year old from India, whose long walks sometimes turns into a solo dance party when the music hits right. She loves to read, write, cook and explore new hobbies. Feel free to reach out to her on Instagram @asrao_10

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“I should get into religion, maybe.”

My friend chuckled. “I thought you didn’t believe in God.”

Which is true, I didn’t.

“Well it isn’t exactly to follow God. It’s more so to read the texts and…I know this sounds cliche, but to

discover the ‘true meaning of life’.” I say halfheartedly.

“Wow, well. To tell you the truth, I don’t think there’s anything in those books that aren’t already in you.” she replied casually.

I paused. I suddenly remembered the monologue from ‘Fleabag’ where the main character confesses to the Priest (the irony being that she’s an atheist) about how she’s frightened about not knowing what to do with her life and feeling the need to have someone who would tell her what to do and what not to do constantly. I thought back to when I was 17 and watching that scene, not being able to relate since it felt like I had everything figured out back then.

I was so sure to become a doctor, something my nine year old self had decided when she wasn’t aware about Einstein’s and Newton’s laws about thermodynamics and energy exchange. But oh well, since I had my mind made up (apparently) I continued on that path, feeling that this IS what I wanted to do.

A blink and a year later, I realised I didn’t have it in me. This was not a field that I was cut out for. I was told it would be okay, but I felt more lost than ever. Suddenly I was back in my 4th grade classroom when we were asked to write out our ambitions, hobbies and interests on a tiny piece of paper. Except right now, my paper was blank. I didn’t know what my interests were nor did I know what talents I had.

“You should take literature. Easy way out. Doesn’t pay much though.”

“BBA? I could get you a job immediately!”

“Dude, take law and come to my college. We’ll have a blast!”

“Haven’t you considered engineering?”

“I didn’t take maths, Pa.”

At 23, I landed my first job at this start-up company for an HR position. Just for a while. Just until I figured things out.

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At 25, I left my job. I found myself at a crossroads.I was embarrassed to admit that at 25 years old, at the age when most of the people in my family had started providing for their families, I truly did not know what to do with my life. I didn’t feel a push towards one specific direction, just a nudge towards a hundred others.

But maybe, admitting that I am lost would be the first step in figuring things out. And I know I’m not alone in this. I can’t be. I’ve had a conversation about this very topic with plenty of friends before..which is proof that this feeling is an unavoidable part of life.

It might even be necessary.

About The Piece

It's a small diary entry about how the youth these days often find themselves confused and lost so we try to make sense of it all in baby steps

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It’s strange how we grow up being told that things will eventually make sense. That confusion is temporary, that uncertainty is just a phase before clarity arrives like some long-awaited guest. But does that ever really happen to anyone? And this is what no one really prepares you for. It is the possibility that clarity doesn’t come in the way you imagined. Sometimes, it doesn’t come at all. And you’re left learning how to live in the in-between. I used to think incompleteness was something to fix. Like a loose thread you keep pulling at until the whole thing either unravels or finally sits right. But lately, I’m starting to feel like maybe incompleteness isn’t always asking to be resolved. Maybe it’s just asking to be noticed and just be one with it.

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There are conversations in my life that never reached a proper ending. Words that were almost said but swallowed at the last second. People who slowly became memories without any clear moment of goodbye. And for the longest time, I held onto the idea that I needed closure, that I deserved some kind of full stop to make sense of it all. But now I’m not so sure. Maybe some things are meant to remain open-ended, like sentences that trail off because there’s nothing more honest left to add. The words that were better left unsaid knew they would cause more harm.

Uncertainty has a way of reshaping you. It teaches you how to sit with discomfort without immediately trying to escape it. And even though I hate to admit it, there’s something oddly intimate about not knowing about standing in a moment without a clear next step and still choosing to stay. It reflects a moment of courage that no one except you will know. I think we underestimate how much courage it takes, and yet we learn to do it all the same. To wake up each day and move forward, although you don’t fully understand where you’re headed or why certain things happened the way they did. There’s no neat narrative to rely on, no certainty to fall back on.

Sometimes I wonder if we’re too obsessed with completion by tying everything together into something that feels whole and finished. But when I really think about it, the moments that have stayed with me the most are the ones that didn’t resolve neatly. The almosts. The things that could have been something else entirely if timing or courage had been just a little different. There’s a kind of honesty in admitting that you don’t have it all figured out. That you’re still in the middle of becoming something you can’t quite name yet. And maybe that’s not a flaw. Maybe that’s just what it means to be here, to be human in a way that isn’t polished or complete or easy to explain.

I’m learning, slowly, that uncertainty doesn’t always have to be an enemy. Sometimes it just means the story isn’t over yet. And maybe it never really will be, at least not in the way we expect. So I’m trying to make peace with the unfinished parts with the questions that don’t have answers and might not ever. I’m trying to sit with the quiet without rushing to fill it. To let things exist as they are, even when they don’t make sense. Because maybe there’s something important in that space. Something real. Something that doesn’t need to be solved to be understood.

About The Author (from herself : D)

Hiiii! I am Nishtha Gupta, your writer-next-door. I am weirdly obsessed with dragons, but I mostly write about human things. My words often live somewhere between poetry and reflection. When I’m not writing, I’m probably overthinking, romanticizing small moments, or turning them into something at least someone can make sense of.

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When asked how she would introduce herself to someone discovering her work for the first time, Deepika speaks about telling her story, and about creating something that allows others to recognise parts of themselves in it. That answer definitely set the tone for the rest of the conversation, because the way she approaches music is just so closely tied to how she understands herself.

Deepika Seth is a Mumbai-based singer-songwriter who spent five years behind the scenes, managing some of the biggest names in the Indian indie circuit, before deciding that it was time to let her own voice lead. She blends the soul of Hindustani classical music with the modern textures of indie folk.

So basically her journey into this space has not followed a direct or predictable route. As said, before putting out her own music, she spent several years working within the industry, closely involved in the careers of other artists and learning how the ecosystem around music actually functions. That experience forms an important part of how she now sees her own work.

One handed Keyboard playing only?

When asked how music first entered her life, Deepika traces it back to a fairly simple starting point. She was in second grade when her mother enrolled her in music classes, lessons on a Casio keyboard.

“It wasn’t even proper keyboard teaching. One hand only” she says.

“I only learnt to play melody, never chords and was using one hand the whole time. I later realised my teacher was actually a harmonium player, not a keyboardist!”

The setup was familiar, a local class, a teacher who taught multiple children together, something that didn’t immediately signal a serious path. But over time, people around her began noticing that she could sing in key without being trained to do so.

That observation led to vocal training, and for a few years, Hindustani classical music became part of her routine. It continued until she chose to step away from it during her school years.

“I think I was in sixth or seventh standard and I was just like… this is too uncool for me.”
It was simply a shift in interest at that age, something many people go through.

Return to Hindustani Classical- not a linear journey

Later in the conversation, when asked whether her classical training still influences her music, Deepika describes it as something that has re-entered her life at different points rather than something she pursued continuously.

“I think Hindustani classical music is an art form that you never really stop learning. If you’re lucky, you eventually begin to embody it. It stops being something that you’re learning & becomes something you’re living. It becomes a way of life. I don’t think I follow this way of life as deeply as certain people do. For me, this relationship Is very spiritual in nature.”

She restarted her training at eighteen under a new guru in Delhi, stepped away again and then returned once more in her early twenties. Even now, she continues learning, though not in a strictly structured manner.

“So for me, this Hindustani classical journey has not been a linear thing that I’ve studied. It’s been a like an old friend who comes in and out of my life depending on the creative phase I’m in!” she explains

That pattern reflects in her work as well. The influence of classical music is present, not as something she consciously applies, but as a foundation that shapes how she approaches melody and composition.

The music industry

When the conversation moves to her time in the music industry, the question naturally comes up: did working closely with artists make it easier for her to become one herself?
Her answer is clear.

“I started in the music business because I wasn’t confident enough to be an artist.”

She explains that at the time, she felt she didn’t have enough training and didn’t consider herself good enough to step into that role. So instead, she chose to work around music, managing artists, understanding the business side and building experience from a different position.

Over time, that experience became useful in ways she hadn’t expected. It gave her an understanding of how the industry operates, how careers are shaped, and how art and commerce intersect.

“The music business is essentially just the commerce to the art, right? Like art and commerce together is what make for a thriving industry and the commerce is something which is just as important for an artist to understand as the art.”

“Entrepreneurs are creative at the end of the day. So yeah, it's a very intermingled thing really. I don’t think there’s a business version of me and a music version of me. It’s just… me, Deepika Seth, one and only.”

That very specific day that made everything clear

At one point in the conversation, she was asked a simple but important question: did it ever feel like it was your time to step into being an artist? Was there a moment where that shift became clear?
Her answer came instantly.

“Yes, I have a very specific day.”

She traces it back to a work trip to Udaipur with an artist she was managing, Kamakshi Khanna. Over a few days, the dynamic between them shifted, they weren’t just working together, they were talking more openly, understanding each other beyond roles, including the insecurities that come with being an artist.

“That was very freeing for me” she says.

At the same time, she found herself stepping into spaces she hadn’t expected, like shooting a music video for Kamakshi on her iPhone, coming up with ideas on the spot, figuring things out as they went along. It wasn’t planned or technical, just instinctive and collaborative.

One evening, there was an informal jam- someone with a guitar, people singing, nothing structured. That’s when Kamakshi heard her sing for the first time.
And later, she said something that stayed.

“Why are you managing me? You’re an artist yourself!!”

Deepika remembers that clearly. “that was the first time someone I respected so much called me an ‘artist’! I was afraid of that word before then”

It wasn’t the first time she had heard encouragement like that, but it was the first time she believed it.

Where do the songs come from?

When asked about her songwriting process, Deepika doesn’t describe a fixed routine.

Every song has taken shape differently.

“I’ve been slowly and steadily stepping into the world of writing. I was always a writer, but I started with prose. Lyrics and melody and song structure is something that I have slowly understood over time. I went into studying it as well at first, but Kahin Duur came to me long before that. Five years before I finished it, I had the first half with me, but I sat with it for the longest time. I didn’t have the skills or the self-assuredness to finish it just yet!”

Over time, after learning more about songwriting and spending time understanding structure and composition, she returned to it and completed it.

Her songs don’t have a specific structure

“There was one time I was literally in the shower” she says, laughing, “and suddenly it was like- okay omg, song, song, song- and I had to run out, write it down, and then go back and finish my shower.”

At other times, the process is far more intentional. She speaks about working with a collaborator, sitting down with a clear idea or emotion in mind, and building the song line by line, discussing, rewriting, shaping it together.

For her, both approaches are equally valid.

“All kinds of permutations and combinations… as long as the song lands, I don’t think it matters how it comes.”

“I have this very urgent need to be understood”

The conversation moves into another question: what do you listen to? What inspires you when you’re creating?

Deepika doesn’t point to a fixed set of influences. Instead, she explains that her relationship with music keeps shifting.

“This answer changes for me constantly” she says. “And I also have phases where I don’t listen to anything. I think emptiness is just as important as being full.”
She isn’t someone who tracks every release or knows every album.

“I’m not that nerdy a music listener. I’m very slow.”
But when something connects, it stays.

Right now, she keeps returning to The Art of Loving by Olivia Dean, not just for how it sounds, but for how it places you inside a moment.
“It puts you in a room where things are happening” she says, recalling the line, “back on your sofa… of course I still care… love’s never wasted when it’s shared.”

She also mentions Lizzy McAlpine and Five Seconds Flat, drawn to the same kind of direct, emotionally grounded writing. Alongside that, her listening spans ghazals, retro Bollywood, indie folk, Jazz, and Alternative Rock.

“I just like dreamy, well-written music.”
That preference absolutely carries into her own work. When asked if music helps her express things she can’t otherwise say:

“I have this very urgent need to be understood.”

She references Iris by Goo Goo Dolls,“I just want you to know who I am”, as something that closely reflects that feeling.

Her upcoming album, Qisse Kal Ke, reflects that. It follows her own experiences over the last few years, relationships, attachment, uncertainty and eventual change… moving to Mumbai, being in love and then slowly dealing with its end.

“There’s a song about being in love… and another where I’m already scared it might end, even when everything is fine.”
That fear existed even before anything changed.
“I had attached so much of my identity to that person… to an unhealthy extent.”

As the album progresses, it moves through that shift… from attachment to loss to understanding. One of the tracks captures the feeling of watching a relationship fall apart without being able to stop it.

“I hope to make a lot of music in this life. That’s why I’m eager to finish this album soon! I’m already excited to work on the next one- because every time I make something new, I grow in my artistry. I’ve decided to make my peace with the fact that this is the best I can do right now, and look at creation a longterm practice.”
And for her, going through all of it is necessary.

“Because how else do you understand yourself if you don’t allow yourself to feel things?”

Don’t hold onto your art- or the version of you that created it

When asked about sharing personal work publicly, especially when it feels too close or too vulnerable, her answer doesn’t push a single approach.

“Whatever phase you’re in… holding back or sharing… is valid.”

She mentions that she herself has held onto songs for years.
At the same time, she points out that avoiding putting work out can create its own kind of stagnation.

“There’s a voice that gets louder the more you don’t listen to it.”

She also adds:

“I personally hope that I make a lot of music in this life and that's why I'm anxious to make this album and move on because I want to make the next thing and every time I make something new, I will grow. So I have to make peace with the fact that this is the best I can do right now at any point and do that as a practice.”

To my younger self, Deepika Seth

Toward the end of the interview, she was asked what she would tell her younger self.

“Hang in there. You’re doing better than you think you are.”

She reflects on how, looking back, every phase of her life now feels connected and necessary, even the ones where she felt uncertain.

“I think every version of yourself needs to be held and told that it's okay wherever you are. So that's what I would tell my younger self right now.”

Future plans

At present, Deepika is working on her album and preparing to release it, with the intention of continuing to create more work beyond it. Her focus is not on presenting a finished version of herself, but on continuing the process, writing, releasing, and moving forward from one phase to the next.

Alongside working on her own music, Deepika also recently marked an important milestone with her playback debut in Nukkad Naatak, which released on Netflix. The project brings her voice into a different space, film, where she contributes as a singer to the soundtrack.

It’s a shift from writing and performing her own work to being part of a larger narrative, and she describes it simply as being grateful to have been a small part of the album. For someone who has spent years working behind the scenes and then gradually stepping into her own artistry, this moment adds another layer to that journey, one that makes us as well her own self just extremely proud of her and equally excited for what the future holds for this really amazing singer!

This feature is based on an exclusive conversation with Deepika Seth, transcribed and adapted for editorial publication

-Written by Niharika Jain, Interviewed by Subhi Kanekar

In both instances, we are requested to, or questioned first.

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After all these years, after all that the women have done for us, don't these so called 'gentlemen' feel as they should respect us rather than assault us.

How is it that a man cannot control his urge, just because he saw a young girls arm uncovered, and in the end the young girl is blamed for not wearing a jacket.

Are men, or in general, the people who support this, sane?

Are they really that indulged into sexual thoughts and situations, that by seeing even an exposed cheek gets them aroused.

Women cannot be blamed for wearing clothes which are normal.

The ones who were born from a woman, fed by a woman, bathed by a woman, taught by a woman, who turned into sexual harrassers are to blame.

Hopefully one day, women can live in a world where men are gentle instead of genital.

About the author

Shivali is a 16 year old, who plays water polo professionally and does art from time to time. She has also majored in classical vocal karnatic music, but writing her point of view on social problems is where she truly finds her skills.

We are open for blog submissions 24x7!

At first glance, it sounds like humility, the one that usually the young achievers are often expected to perform with. But as Ruhaan speaks, it becomes crystal clear that this isn’t modesty but rather his own perspective.

Ruhaan Alva took to Kart racing at the age of 8 and became the Indian Vice Champion on debut. He is the first Indian to become the Italian Vice Champion at the age of 11 years. Based out of Bangalore Ruhaan studied in NPS Koramangala before moving to home schooling to pursue racing as a full time professional. Ruhaan is currently racing for the MSport team and participates in National and International championships. He won 4 Titles in 2021 among the others to add to multiple titles he had already won. Ruhaan was invited to the Ferrari Driver Academy Asia Pacific selection program in 2022 and also represented India in the F4 category of the World Motorsport Games.

At just 19, when most people are still navigating uncertainty and exploring possibilities, he is already operating within a world that demands precision, discipline and an almost relentless mental clarity from him. His life unfolds in milliseconds… braking points, lap times, margins of error so small they are almost invisible… yet his reflections carry a calmness that makes the person he’s speaking to feel calm. Beneath the speed, the competition and the rising recognition there is something more definite about him: a commitment & passion to grow relentlessly, and an understanding that whatever he has achieved so far is only a fraction of what still lies ahead.

The early hesitation and fear

Every success story is often simplified into a neat narrative of early certainty, as if passion arrives fully formed and unwavering. Ruhaan’s journey, however, began in a much much more human space… one that included hesitation, uncertainty, and even fear. While his fascination with cars started early, around the age of 4-5, it did not immediately translate into confidence behind the wheel.

His father, who had a background in rallying, recognised this interest and gradually introduced him to karting. Yet, when faced with the reality of driving, Ruhaan admits that he was initially reluctant. There was fear, a natural apprehension that comes with stepping into something unfamiliar and high-stakes.

As he slowly began to engage with the sport, this hesitation rose into curiosity, and eventually into genuine enjoyment. It wasn’t really a climatic dramatic turning point but rather a gradual shift, one that marked the beginning of a relationship with motorsport that would go on to define his life.

That transition, from fear to fascination, reveals something essential about his journey: it was not built on instant confidence, but on the willingness to grow into something that once felt intimidating.

Neverending Races and Accolades for the young racer

Over the years, that early curiosity has evolved into a career that already spans multiple geographies and competitive levels.

Ruhaan has raced internationally, including participation in the GB4 Championship in the United Kingdom and the World Motorsport Games, while also establishing himself within India’s growing racing ecosystem. His achievement as the youngest winner in the Indian Racing League is something to be noted.

Unlike many fields where achievements can be stopped and then admired, racing demands constant forward movement. Each race resets the narrative, each season introduces new variables and each performance is evaluated within the context of what comes next. For Ruhaan, these accomplishments are not endpoints but markers along a much longer trajectory. The way he speaks about them- an understanding that in a sport defined by momentum, dwelling too long on past success can become a limitation rather than a strength.

India’s Motorsport Movement

In a country where sporting conversations are overwhelmingly dominated by cricket, motorsport often exists at the periphery of public awareness. For many, racing is synonymous with Formula 1, with little visibility into the broader ecosystem that exists both globally and within India. Ruhaan, however, is part of a generation that is trying to actively reshape that narrative.

He speaks about the gradual but undeniable growth of motorsport infrastructure in India, pointing to the emergence of platforms such as the Indian Racing League and Indian F4 as indicators of progress. Yet, alongside this growth, there remains a gap in recognition and understanding. The challenge is not just about building tracks or organising championships, but about cultivating awareness… helping audiences and stakeholders recognise that motorsport in India is no longer an isolated or inaccessible pursuit. It is evolving into a structured pathway, one that, with the right support, can produce a much larger globally competitive talent pool.

Racing Abroad- A different world

Ruhaan’s experiences in Europe have offered him a direct comparison between emerging and established motorsport ecosystems. The differences, as he describes them, are absolutely not subtle.

Abroad, the sport operates within a highly refined framework where every aspect- from team management to technical support is literally optimized for performance. The professionalism extends beyond the track, shaping an environment where drivers are consistently exposed to high levels of competition and preparation.

One of the most significant distinctions lies in the amount of track time available to drivers. In Europe, frequent racing opportunities allow drivers to accumulate experience at a much faster rate, sharpening their skills and adaptability. This continuous exposure creates a competitive edge that is difficult to replicate in regions where access is more limited. At the same time, racing in such conditions also presents its own challenges, including varying weather conditions and heightened competition, both of which contribute to a steeper learning curve. For Ruhaan, these experiences have not only tested his abilities but have also expanded his understanding of what it takes to compete at the highest level.

The Ferrari Dream

Among the many milestones in Ruhaan’s journey, his association with the Ferrari Driver Academy stands out as a moment of profound significance. For any young driver, the idea of working with Ferrari carries an almost mythic weight, representing both aspiration and validation. Being selected for the Asia-Pacific program was not merely an opportunity to train with an elite organisation, but also a recognition of his potential within a highly competitive field.

Instead of talking about it like a big “I’ve made it” moment, Ruhaan looks at it much more simply… as an experience he’s genuinely grateful for and one that helped him grow. There’s no sense of him treating it like a finish line or some final achievement. If anything, he almost brushes past it in the most grounded way, as just another part of the journey. It’s clear that he sees motorsport as a continuous process, where every opportunity, no matter how prestigious, is just another step, not the destination itself.

What People don’t see

From the outside, motorsport is often reduced to its most visible elements: the speed, the machinery, the spectacle of competition. However, Ruhaan is quick to dismantle this perception, offering a much more nuanced view of what the sport truly demands. The physical requirements alone are extremely extensive, involving rigorous training to build endurance, strength and reflexes that are capable of sustaining performance under intense conditions. Yet, it is the mental aspect that he emphasises most strongly.

Racing requires an extraordinary level of focus, where even a momentary lapse can have immediate and irreversible consequences. Maintaining this level of concentration over extended periods is both challenging and exhausting, requiring not just skill but also psychological resilience.

Beyond these personal demands lies another layer of complexity: the financial realities of the sport. Sponsorship, particularly in India, remains a significant barrier, often determining the opportunities available to a driver regardless of talent. This intersection of performance and funding creates a landscape where success is influenced by factors both within and beyond a driver’s control.

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The Hannah Montana Life: Student and a Racer

Before international circuits and competitive grids, there was the challenge of balancing education with an increasingly demanding racing career. For Ruhaan, this period was defined by constant negotiation between two equally important responsibilities. Missing school due to racing commitments was unavoidable, yet academic performance remained non-negotiable.

His mother played a central role in maintaining this balance, setting clear expectations that academic excellence would not be compromised. The requirement to maintain high grades added an additional layer of pressure, but it also instilled a discipline that would later become essential in his racing career.

Reflecting on this phase, Ruhaan realised that these early challenges were formative, teaching him how to manage competing priorities and adapt to demanding situations… skills that extend far beyond the classroom or the track.

Not the conventional pursuit

Pursuing a career in motorsport inevitably involves sacrifices, many of which remain invisible to those observing from the outside. For Ruhaan, one of the most significant trade-offs has been the experience of a conventional social life. The demands of training, travel and competition leave little room for the routines and interactions that define the lives of most teenagers.

This absence is not without its challenges. Relationships require more effort to maintain and moments of normalcy become infrequent. Yet, there is also a sense of acceptance in the way he speaks about it. The pure understanding that every choice carries a cost allows him to navigate these sacrifices without resentment. When opportunities to unwind do arise, they are simple- spending time with friends, reconnecting with a sense of normalcy that exists outside the structured intensity of racing.

The myth of end points in Racing career

In many narratives, success is framed as a moment…a point at which everything aligns and a sense of completion is achieved. Ruhaan challenges this idea directly, stating that he has yet to experience such a moment. Instead, he describes his journey as a collection of smaller milestones, each significant in its own way but none definitive enough to signal an end.

When Dreaming, there are no speed limits

When the conversation turns to the future, Ruhaan’s ambitions are both clear and uncompromising. His goal is to become a world champion, whether in Formula 1 or the World Endurance Championship. There is no hesitation in the way he articulates this vision.

This clarity is perhaps one of his defining traits- be it in speaking, or be it in racing.

For those who feel stuck

Motorsport, like many competitive fields, is not immune to periods of stagnation. There are moments when progress slows, when opportunities seem out of reach and when effort does not immediately translate into results. Ruhaan acknowledges the difficulty of these phases, particularly when they are influenced by factors beyond a driver’s control.

His advice, however, remains grounded in persistence. Continuing to work, to perform and to maintain focus becomes essential, even in the absence of immediate rewards. It is a reminder that progress is not always linear and that resilience often plays as significant a role as talent in determining long-term success.

Message to the younger Ruhaan

When asked what he would tell his younger self, Ruhaan’s response is striking in its simplicity. He speaks about the importance of enjoying the process, of not allowing the pressure to perform to overshadow the initial joy that drew him to the sport. It is a reflection that feels both personal and universal, applicable not just to racing but to any pursuit that demands sustained effort and commitment.

Beyond the track

For Ruhaan, motorsport is not just a career but a literal central defining element of his identity. When asked about interests beyond racing, his response is straightforward… this is what he knows, what he loves and what he has chosen to dedicate himself to. This singular focus, while demanding, also provides a sense of clarity that is often difficult to achieve in a world filled with distractions.

Dreams Upcoming

Ruhaan’s story remains unfinished and perhaps that is what makes it most compelling. It is a story of progression, shaped by effort, resilience and a willingness to keep moving forward despite the constant uncertainties. As he continues to navigate the complexities of motorsport, one thing remains clear: he is not defined by where he stands today, but by the direction in which he is headed.

In a sport where everything moves so fast, Ruhaan isn’t in a hurry to “pass the finish line”. He’s more about taking it step by step, focusing on getting better each time and understanding that the journey matters just as much as wherever he ends up.

This feature is based on an exclusive conversation with Ruhaan, transcribed and adapted for editorial publication.

Article Written by Niharika Jain
In conversation with Subhi Kanekar

But summers, to me, were always May to July. They meant cousins arriving from different cities, filling up a house that was never really built to hold that many people, yet somehow always did. It meant mornings that began earlier than school days ever could, stepping out into that brief window of cool air before the sun decided to take over. It meant planning games days in advance, as if we were strategizing for something monumental, only to forget all plans the moment we stepped outside and chaos took over. Afternoons were relentless. And yet, we stayed outside anyway, bargaining with time, promising “just one more game” until someone’s voice with a promise to not let this happen again tomorrow finally pulled us back in. We’d come home drenched in sweat, tired in the way that felt earned, not imposed. Evenings softened everything. The house would hum with a different kind of energy. Nights meant all of us gathered in one room, sitting cross-legged on the floor, arguing over rules of games no one fully remembered, turning something as simple as bingo into a battlefield. And when the lights went off, that wasn’t the end of the day. It was just a kids-only secret continuation. We’d all somehow fit into one room that for too many bodies had too little space, and conversations would stretch into the night. Gossip, secrets, pointless arguments, laughter that had to be muffled so the adults wouldn’t hear. Someone would get annoyed, someone would almost cry, and someone else would make it worse. And yet, by morning, none of it mattered enough to be remembered.

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That was summer. Or at least, that was what it used to be. Somewhere along the way, it changed. Not suddenly, not in a way you could point to, but slowly: like when the eldest of us couldn’t make it because of his job. Oh how we hated his job without knowing even a single thing about it. Summers became shorter and quieter. Cousins stopped coming over for weeks at a time but only for a day or two because that was all the luxury time could provide us. The house felt a bit emptier in summers. The games disappeared first. Then the noise. Then the need to be together all the time. And now, summer arrives almost the same way every year, but it doesn’t feel the same. June still comes with the same heat, the same mangoes, and the same long days, but the feeling doesn’t return with it. Instead, it brings something else.

Nostalgia.

Every June feels like looking at a place you once lived in, now from the outside. Familiar, but not the same. I still think of summers as that rush, the need to win against my cousins and siblings, and the teasing that went on just a little too long, the kind that ended in tears but never lasted beyond the moment. I think of the noise, the closeness, the way everything felt bigger and simpler at the same time. And maybe that’s what growing up really is.

Not losing summer all at once, but in fragments.

In the games you stop playing. I

n the people you stop seeing as often.

In the silence that replaces noise you once complained about.

Until one day, summer is no longer something you love.

It’s something you remember.

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A crush is just a lack of information, they say, but I’ve spent so long trying to see you as my beautiful muse and nothing else. I wished our conversations didn’t feel comfortable and that you’d turn rude with every comment. None of that happened. You had so many chances to leave me on read, and you didn’t. Why? How am I not supposed to fall for you if you act so kind? How am I not supposed to melt when you come to me asking for book recommendations and when you suggest riveting films? How am I supposed to ignore that electricity between us when you look into my eyes like as if I’m made of gold? How am I supposed to erase you when you take every opportunity you can to greet me in the hallways? I hate this, and I hate what you’re doing to me.

A crush is just a lack of information, they say, but now I see you for more than just your appearance. I see you for your kindness, I see you for your character. You turned out to be nothing that I had imagined—in the worst way possible. And today proved that. When you asked for my favourite flower that you said you’d gift on my birthday, when my friend told me that you paid for her lunch, when you passed me my water bottle as I panted, when I realised that conversations with you are so much more meaningful than I’d imagined. I really had you painted as a distant, cold-hearted person, but you broke through my perception. And now that I’ve fallen so much for you, you’re telling me that I can’t have you?

A crush is just a lack of information, they say, and we should maintain distance. But you get closer with each passing day, and my affection for you only grows irrespective of how little interest you display. You’re a wonderful friend, but everything between us is so platonic that it’s killing me. I don’t want your corporate handshakes, formal messages, like I’m just a coworker you’re texting. I want your midnights and soft side and a hard day’s embrace. So please hurt me, because if I can’t have you, then that’ll only damage me. Your affection is unbelievable and I can’t fathom that I mistook you for something negative. There’s so much hidden in you, and you’ve told me only parts of it. But I took the effort to piece your life together and to fix that brokenness. Your new friends weren’t there for your birthday, but I was. I remembered, I made my friend video call you at midnight, and that took you by surprise because you weren’t expecting it. You see, I always treat people just the way I want to be treated. I’ve never had anyone wish me at midnight. Just like you, I’ve had birthdays where no one wished me, not even my parents. We’re so similar, if you see—we’ve got so many parallels in our lives. Sometimes I feel like we’re meant to be, and I’d label it all a coincidence. No one truly has ever inspired me to write as much as you have. Songs, a whole novel, poems and prose, short films, my Substack notes, Medium blogs and whatnot—every form of literature there is has known of your existence. If I ever make it as a writer, your presence will linger in the minds of so many, all who’ll feel the undying love I had for you—the undying love which I had to bury. So much of my life has been plagued by you in so many countless ways, from being my first thought in the morning and the last one as I sleep. I guess I’ll never know what’s going on between us because I feel so much and maybe you feel nothing. Because when I fall, I fall hard, and I’ll refuse to let go of you until we graduate and go our separate ways and become strangers again.

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A crush is just a lack of information, they say, but I don’t think you realise how deep of a hole this situation has pierced in me. That I have to watch the most perfect boy slip right out of my hands into someone else’s. I’m happy for you, I’m glad you’re finding love, but I can’t deny that this is breaking me. I’m supposed to watch all your kindness and love and affection be poured upon another—the same kindness and love and affection that I fell for. And it’s going to surround me like a nightmare that was rehearsing behind the curtains, waiting to pounce upon me. We share a city—the same roads, the same sun and moon, the same breeze. My favourite restaurant is yours too, my favourite street is yours too, and my favourite park is now yours too. I saw you take her there, and I saw the moments that we shared turn into tragedy. I’m supposed to see the remnants of my love as I watch you hold her hand, as I watch you message her, and it’s right in front of me. Not once, but twice, flashed before my eyes without a warning. I was never even your talking stage; I was never in your friend group. You were only ever my acquaintance, my colleague and my worst heartbreak.

A crush is just a lack of information, they say, but you make that sentence meaningless. You defy everything: my strength to move on and my weakness to give in—you’re the worst best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I don’t know how to deal with it. At least be rude to me. At least pretend that you don’t care. I don’t want to stand on the sidelines of your life—I wish to be a part of it. I can’t have you waiting and giving me company and forcing small conversations while I wait for my cab, knowing damn well that you have a long walk to your house. Don’t be so kind, please; it only hurts me. Be rude, be aggressive, show me your worst side so that I don’t keep seeing the good in you. Tell me that you have anger issues or that you hate my work or tell me that I’m the most horrible person you’ve ever met or that I’m someone no one should trust. I can’t have you telling me stories and spinning dreams if I don’t get to be a part of them.

A crush is just a lack of information, they say—until your crush turns out to be everything you’ve ever wanted.

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Dark skinned girls are handed besan, lemons and turmeric. Yet we worship the dark skinned Kali. We tell young girls to cover up yet we worship in temples adorned with sculptures of women carved with uncovered bodies. We preach ‘modesty’, yet the divine, in its truest form was never modest or small .We tell girls to be silent, restrained and obedient yet bow to a goddess who was the definition of wild and powerful.

If the girl next door was a form of God itself, would you ask her to cover up? To soften her voice? Or use that turmeric face mask?

Rishtas are handed before report cards. Eighteen year old girls are not allowed to wear spectacles because “ladke wale pasand nahi karenge”, is the reality of our country. A painful reality. Potential is quietly sidelined in favour of “suitability”, as if education is something to pass time until it is time to “settle down”. Young girls are made to serve food while their fathers sit on the couch manspreading, because her future is determined before she finds her voice.

Silence is placed above safety. Telling your parents about that creepy uncle who asks you to sit on his lap is nothing short of a nightmare; because we all know that we will be silenced. “Shush stay quiet, don’t you dare tell anyone about this to anyone”. Reality gets reduced to a misunderstanding; because the only thing they want to survive is the family reputation.

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Maybe the question isn’t why girls are so outspoken today, but why their voices make you uncomfortable. Why confidence feels acceptable only in idols, only at a distance. We celebrate power when it is symbolic, when the story has an end but hesitate when it lives next door . So the discomfort is worth examining; not in girls who speak, dress, or choose freely, but in a society that applauds strength in theory and resents it in practice.

About The Writer

Akshara is a 16 year old from India, whose long walks sometimes turns into a solo dance party when the music hits right. She loves to read, write, cook and explore new hobbies. She spends most of her spare time either sleeping or eating. Feel free to reach out to her on Instagram @asrao_10

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We saw you scream

We saw you run

We say you hide from the white sizzling gun

Covered in dirt

Buried alive

They try to erase all signs of life

All traces of you gone

But for the spreading read

Under the dome

We saw you fight

We saw you cry

We say you sing from day to night

Till we saw you no more

But for the spreading red under the dome

We dropped tears as they dropped bo,bs

For the heart of humanity appears to be gone

Only sattelites now came to see

Capturing the red

Flowing from all the rivers

To all our seas

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Atchoi is a scientific researcher with a PhD in Animal behaviour and Light pollution. She is a South-african-Portuguese sci-fi and revolution writer that uses stream of consciousness style writing to both cope with mental illness and process the current world.

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Atchoi about the piece: “I wrote this to process the abhorrent satellite images that showed blood spilled in Sudan.”

Handsomest

Dearest

Sweetheart

September is an apology—remember it

As the leaves ruffle the wind

And my hair gets messy

And you laugh—the sound caresses my ears—and the city roars.

Remember it.

This is an apology

For summer’s burns & hurts;

The air is sorry,

Forgive it,

Forgive yourself.

Foretell time

About what’s going to happen from now on.

My lipgloss is sticking to my hair

It’s infuriating,

But we must forget

The smallest amounts of fate,

We must forgive

Time for our musing

And the lack of amusement.

We must forgive

Like the trees forgive the wind

For the dead leaves.

Remember it.

September is an apology;

The path’s been cleared,

Onto another story.

Now

Forget it all,

It is time for fall.

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ABOUT THE POET

M.V. NIANG is a French writer who self-published her debut poetry collection in August 2025, a literary celebration of romance called "Love & All That Jazz". Her aim is to bring back love on the main stage of Art in a world that seems in desperate need of it.

A whirlwind of emotion, a tide of pain, and a mountain to bear—all come crashing down the moment you’re found.
I met a boy. I loved him with my heart, soul, and mind. But what can I say? My karmic balance sheet was heavy. It demanded repayment, required strength, and took its due—in full and without mercy.

Desired and drained, the love I gave was like money wired to an account never to be seen again.
Soon after, I tried to make peace with the hurt left behind. I tried to explain that I wasn’t the one at fault—that blame belonged elsewhere—but I took the fall to protect someone bitten by fate. In that streak, I lost who could’ve been the man of my dreams—and always will be.

Now I burn in an Eden made of grief, locked out of a future I don’t remember choosing.
And yet, I can’t ignore how the same form keeps appearing in my life: the same eyes, the same height, the dimples that knew how to care, the glasses that track my every move, the same words, the same smile.

They say it took them by surprise—the way my eyes speak of whiskey and war.
Some speak with strength. Others speak through grief.
Still, they manage to maze a heart that’s seen it all.
They try to hold my attention longer than a week, but that’s hardly fair.

There are others who care—for the way I look, the way I speak. But the cycle grows tired.
Especially after the one I loved left a space in my heart filled only by hope I can no longer reach.

And so I keep finding copies of you—echoes, never the original.
Maybe this is nature’s cruel joke, the universe’s quiet punishment:
To show me everything I’ve lost by repeating it endlessly in new faces.

You—I cannot keep.
But I shall find another to whom I can give my love.

Still, it is only reflections of you I find.
Perhaps I’m destined to live inside a shrine to your image.
Not trapped, but always bound by this thread that pulls me back to the reckoning of my own madness.

Maybe I don’t deserve a new beginning.
Maybe I never asked for it.
Or maybe I’m too blind to see the world beyond your shadow.

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But I don’t want to.
I was meant for this life—for the wedding in Greece, for the vows we never said.
So help me God, if not with you, then with a version of you.
Because though I might miss you now, I won’t let myself be buried in that longing.

One day, in a dress so white it blinds the past,
I will shine into a future you were never meant to witness.
But still, I know—I will one day see your surname etched somewhere,
And I’ll remember:
You can run, but you can never hide from the thread that binds us—
Invisible. Relentless. Forever.

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Having lived in Hyderabad, Bangalore and now studying at the University of Calgary in Canada this woman dreams to be a part of the Indian contingent for the Winter Olympics 2030- and rightfully so.

Nayana Sri Talluri, is an Indian Short Track Speed Skater, an intense adrenaline-packed ice sport that keeps the audience at the edge of their seats.

“The feel of ice is just awesome”

In 2016, Nayana began skating as a basic summer camp to keep herself busy while both of her parents worked. She chose skating because it was new and unique. After being advised to go to more ice skating camps, she also dabbled in figure and artistic skating before being drawn more to short track. Consequently, she had to bid adieu to skating and figure skating.

“Why do I like it? Because it has everything in it, it has speed, precision, technique, competition, collision, everyone is fighting for one spot without separate lanes, there’s a lot of drama as well. It just was very fascinating to me”, her exact words on why she chose this specific sport always trumps other reasons. “Every glide on the ice feels very smooth and soothing, no friction makes it enjoyable for me.”

The love for ice and skating is imminently visible in not just her words but even visible in her achievements, she has established a solid competitive record in Indian short track speed skating during the last few years.

After winning several gold medals in the women’s 500-meter event and becoming a dominant force in her category, she gained national attention at the Khelo India Winter Games. She has performed exceptionally well in relay competitions in addition to her individual accomplishments.

She has competed internationally for India at the Asian Open Short Track Speed Skating Championship, helping the country win medals and bolstering its standing in the sport.

When asked, “Do you remember the first time you stepped onto the ice? What did it feel like? And how do you think that emotion or feeling has evolved currently?”
Her answer definitely caught us out of the blue.

“The first time I stepped onto the ice was directly into a race with 0% practice, that too an open national level competition which was kind of a big deal. I remember stepping onto ice and experiencing no friction for the first time and it was so smooth I can’t describe it quite well but it was new and exciting, I was also there just to have fun, to try it out and god I loved it. I also remember falling in the very first lap of the race and my teammates and family were screaming from upstairs to get up and finish the race, so I got up and went another lap, fell again, got up again and somehow finished it. Then when I met my teammates everyone was so proud of how well I raced in comparison with the others of my team who were also there for the first time. It was genuinely a great first experience.”

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The price of playing winter sports in India

Statistically, only 16-17 Indian players have participated in Winter Olympics in total since 1964 till the recent Winter Olympics 2026- with only 2 players part of the Indian Contingent for Milano Cortina 2026.
Among these, only 2 women have played for India.
The most famous winter Olympian being, Shiva Keshavan, a luge player.

The current two Indian players include Arif Khan in Alpine Skiing (Slalom) and Stanzin Lundup in Cross-country skiing. (Winter Olympics 2026)

Why? When Nayana was asked, a simple plea resonated amongst the winter sports players across India through her answer.

“Coming from an economically challenged background, I’ve had my fair share of constraints… but my parents were always selfless about it.”
“I’ve reached out to my government (Indian) about this but never had any help from them, I am trying to get monetary help wherever I can since that is all I can do. These were faced in the early years and now as well.”
“With no disrespect to the players, I believe that the only reasons I thought about quitting were the financial strain I was under, the government’s lack of assistance, and the sport’s limited visibility in India because of the fixation on that one ‘mainstream’ sport.”

Because of the lack of infrastructure and support, this is a huge letdown for the players who put their all into their sport for years and for the fans who genuinely enjoy watching and cheering them on.

Even though the Khelo India Winter Games have recently drawn more attention to them, they still don’t have the kind of support they need to compete and win at international tournaments. Among these is Nayana. They shouldn’t be cornered and made to feel like they have no one to support their sport, not only by the government but also by Indian citizens.

Shiva Keshavan, who competed in the Winter Olympics at Luge without any financial or infrastructural assistance from the Indian government, is a well-known example.

We firmly believe that such a lack of support is unacceptable, so we urge everyone to create a supportive atmosphere for all sports, not just one, so that they can represent India with pride both domestically and internationally.

We asked: How do you think things might change in the next five years if India made more investments in winter sports, whether from the government or even the general public? Do you believe there is a chance we will see a sizable Indian delegation at the Winter Olympics in the upcoming years?

Her answer warmed our hearts!
“If India did invest in Indian Athletes, I would confidently say that the desi tadka would not disappoint at any cost. And going to the Olympics is not an easy deal, it needs utmost dedication and constant monitoring of your program from elite coaches and top level equipment (especially winter sports). I hope to see a huge contingent of India too at the next winter olympics and that the athletes receive the right amount of care they need.”

Because of the encouragement she receives from her parents, her passion for the sport and the ice, and the thrill of gliding on the ice, Nayana is able to glide through our hearts as we support and cheer for her and her fellow athletes who compete in short track speed skating and winter sports.

Hopes of wearing India’s colours

Nayana Sri Talluri’s journey is not just the story of a young athlete chasing an Olympic dream… It is a reflection of what determination looks like when it truly refuses to bow down to limitations. From falling in her very first race to rising again with unwavering grit, from navigating financial strain to training internationally with hopes of wearing India’s colours on the grandest winter stage, her journey embodies resilience in its purest form.

The Winter Olympics 2030 may still be years away, but the foundation of that dream is being built every single day… be it in the early morning training sessions, in relentless laps on the ice, and in the courage to keep going despite uncertainty. If India chooses to invest in winter sports, athletes like Nayana will not just participate, they will compete, challenge, and inspire many others.

And perhaps when the Indian contingent marches into the Winter Olympics 2034, we will remember this 17-year-old from Telangana who once said with conviction, “I’ll be a part of the Indian Contingent.”

Because sometimes, the smoothest glide on ice begins with the bravest fall.

Interview taken and written by Niharika Jain

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That is something I am insanely proud of. Knowing that my poetry is good enough, unique enough, or intriguing enough for magazines to share with their audiences is a huge accomplishment. Even so, every time a big literary journal like The New Yorker or ROOM rejects my work, I feel like it means I’m not good enough.

Realistically, if you look at the number of submissions those magazines get per year, there is a very slim chance of ever being published by them. Better poets than I have tried and failed— you have to write something genuinely incredible. But, I guess that’s just it. Am I not capable of being incredible? Maybe I’m just a mediocre writer. Maybe I’m just decent.

And then I reread that, and I know it isn’t really fair. Rejection isn’t a measurement of my worth as a writer. A lot of it is about measuring fit, timing, and taste. There are a thousand moving parts of a literary magazine that I’ll never see, and I can’t take every rejection so personally.

What actually makes a piece of writing incredible? To me, incredible writing is something that sticks with you long after you’ve read it, or a quote you know by heart:

“I measure every grief I meet

with narrow, probing eyes.

I wonder if it weighs like mine,

or has an easier size.”

- Emily Dickinson

To me, that is incredible writing. To you, though, it might be unremarkable. There is no tangible way to measure what is or isn’t incredible, because it’s so subjective. And if it is subjective, then I can’t keep letting one, or even one hundred, editorial teams decide how high my ceiling is. Some poems have changed me as a person, changed the way I look at the world, that will never be pinned to a prestigious masthead. There are poets I love whose names would mean nothing to an algorithm or a gatekeeper, because they keep their writing in their Notes App.

So, yeah. I am a poet. The ‘published’ part is just a little something extra. Whether or not I’m a particularly remarkable poet is anyone’s guess. I’m remarkable to my mom, my siblings, my friends, and my neighbour. That doesn’t mean any less than being remarkable by The New Yorker’s standards. It should mean more, really. Human connection is why we make art in the first place.

At least, it should be.

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it wasn’t a gentle breeze that could be felt despite the single ray of sun hitting silently on March 27th. it wasn’t a symphony that was composed by a poet counting his last breaths nor was a canvas engraved by the blood of an artist captivated by his muse’s eyes.

It was a storm so loud that the solemn northern star guiding the seamen vanished and an eclipse so darkening that the soft glow emerging from all the promises made by young love, first love emptied itself out in an abyss profound.

I like to believe his eyes held a sentiment so warm and a gaze so exhilarating that it would have made that fallen soldier and his wife who waited for him have a last chance to hold hands instead of her facing her grievances by a withered away letter.

His soul when wrapped around the wounds of my heart, everything loud and evident- the metal gate clanking and his friends circling the souls who wished nothing but to just prove the red string theory to be true, became seemingly silent masking itself in the epitome of melancholy.

“Don’t go.” The words transversed from oceans unfound to seabeds unexplored and from carved rocks on a faraway cave to remains of a bridge naturally collapsed. By the time they came out to speak to you, you were somewhere far away from the place regarded as our safe haven; somewhere that leaves a void on the street I last saw you filled with hope and drained by disdain on a daily basis.

I map out paper airplanes with hearts and “i love you” hoping one of them reaches to you;

But my affirmations stand firm in the same plane as your obligations;

As paper creases deepens in that airplane, it races back to the ground where I stand.

It races back to the ground where I last saw you.

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i keep thinking about how easily i used to tell you things.

not important things. just things.

what i ate. where i was. something i noticed on the way home.

somewhere along the way that stopped feeling natural.

i don’t know when.

i just know that now i hesitate.

and that pause says more than i want it to.

there are moments when i still reach for you.

not to talk. just to feel close to something familiar.

like touching a light switch in a dark room even when you know it won’t turn on.

i don’t think we fell out.

i think we drifted.

and i don’t know if drifting is something you notice while it’s happening

or only after you’ve gone far enough to miss the shore.

i hope you’re sleeping well.

i hope the days are kind to you.

i hope someone asks how you are and really waits for the answer.

sometimes i want to tell you i miss you.

not in a way that asks for anything back.

just in the way you miss a season that made sense at the time.

if you ever think of me,

i hope it’s without heaviness.

just a quiet warmth.

like remembering a room you once felt safe in.

that’s all this is.

not a reaching out.

just leaving the door unlocked.

O’ Filandra, how do we as humans have the right;

How do we as mere humans have the power;

To ravage this world;

O’ where did our tenderness go?

O’ Filandra, using our arms, we’re welcoming’ death, why?

Using our indolent minds, we’re forgetting kindness, why?

Killing others, are we justifying it

As a meagre war, why?

O’ Filandra, where did the compassion go?

Why are the innocent propelled to bow,

To the God of Death,

Absconding them through their life.

O’ Filandra, where exactly are we headed to in this race of power?

What are we achieving, massacring even just a soul in this world;

How come we’ve become so cruel,

Forgetting our duties as the children of earth.

O’ Filandra, What are we doin’?

Screams, shrieks ‘nd blood-curdling cries, is all that we hear;

As we go on rampaging the fields of morality,

Tell me, when do we stop this rage?

O’ Filandra, the smothering fields of death ‘nd greed,

Is prising away all our residual humanity;

Tranquillity, serenity, peace… all vamoosed,

From our homespun graveyard;

Where, now, we seem to worship inhumanity.

O’ Filandra, help us! Help us, the imprudent humans;

To cease this foolishness;

Help us regenerate the cordiality, once again

Help us, to get out of this vicious circle of barbarism.

O’ Filandra, Where did our humanity go?

When did we start treading on this utterly reckless path?

When did we become so barbaric ‘nd greedy?

How are we supposed to escape to the once humane world,

Once again?

O’ Filandra, Where has our humanity gone?

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Nicholas Chuan is 23, Malaysian, and has been working as a freelance illustrator for nearly a decade. He runs his practice under the name ChuanGraphics and is based in Penang, which he describes as “a very beautiful island tucked in the northern part of Malaysia.” Most days, his work routine includes his dog, Munchy, who he calls his “trusty work companion.”

Nicholas initially did not set out to become a designer. Drawing was something he did instinctively as a child, yet never considered it a professional direction. “I loved to doodle since a very young age. But I was never a colouring expert” he says. The shift came when he was thirteen and discovered football edits on Twitter. Curious about how those visuals were made, he downloaded Photoshop (pirated) and began experimenting. “Inside the sports creative world, I’ve discovered my potential in creativity and opened the doors to what I am doing today.”

For several years, his work remained exploratory. It was during the lockdown period that he began pushing himself to try different styles and formats. “I was experimenting a lot, and very keen to explore different mediums to create art with different styles” he recalls. One project from that period, a Naomi Osaka poster, marked a turning point. The work circulated widely across platforms like Behance and LinkedIn, giving him confidence that his approach resonated beyond his immediate circle.

Professional validation followed soon after. In 2021, UEFA reached out regarding a Champions League Final project. “That was basically the project that platformed my freelance career”. At that point, the impact was personal as much as professional. “My family was ecstatic, my friends were very supportive, and I couldn’t be more excited at that time.” What an emotion it must have been!

A recurring aspect of Nicholas’s work is his attention to context, particularly in motorsport and Grand Prix–themed projects. His concepts begin with research rather than visuals. “It takes me about a day to polish the concept I wanted to convey” he says, explaining the process that includes studying the region and extensive reference gathering. He is clear about one guiding rule:

“I don’t want the poster to be stereotypically portrayed, and I wanted the poster to feel authentic and represented.”

His creative process follows a loose structure. Moodboards lead to sketches, which then evolve into final designs. At the same time, he allows room for experimentation. “Structure is core” he says, “but some things are just happy accidents, and trials and errors to see what works, what doesn’t.”

Like most artists, Nicholas experiences creative blocks, but he has developed ways to manage them. “Creative blocks are tiring, but it never harmed me” he explains. When work stalls, he steps away from illustration and turns to photography or travel. “That’s what I need to come back with fresh ideas.”

Outside of work, his routines remain simple. Photography and travel remain consistent interests, and football continues to be part of his life. “It is always my go to activity growing up as a massive football fan” he says.

On social media, Nicholas keeps his presence minimal. “People might know me as pretty lowkey and private based on my account”. He treats these platforms as professional spaces rather than personal ones and prefers direct interaction offline. “I would consider myself a very outgoing person” he says, adding that he values meeting people he has connected with through the sports creative community in person.

One lesson his practice has taught him is the importance of sharing work without over-polishing. “It doesn’t have to be the nicest looking, or the most polished piece of art”. Over time, he has realised that different works reach different audiences, sometimes in unexpected ways

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Incomplete work is also part of his process. “Too many unfinished art on my computer” he admits. Some pieces are abandoned, others revisited later. “If I don’t finish it, I treat it as practice and upskilling.” For him, unfinished work still holds value.

When discussing the future of illustration, particularly with the rise of AI, Nicholas takes a firm position. “AI is soulless and it’s a corporate tool to banish creativity from humankind” he says. At the same time, he believes this shift has reinforced the value of human-made work. “This makes more room for human art to be expressed and loved by many people.”

To emerging artists who hesitate to begin or share their work, his advice is direct.

“Starting from somewhere is the best because you have nothing to lose” he says. He emphasises the importance of visibility and community. “Don’t be afraid to start posting more, and connect with people working within the industry.”

Looking at where he is now, Nicholas remains aware of how unexpected his journey has been.

“Never in a million years I’d think I would be doing what I love as my career”. Much of his perspective comes back to support… from family, friends, and the broader creative community. “Very very grateful once again” he adds.

There is an understanding here that not every piece needs to be finished, and not every experiment needs to be shared. Some works move forward, others remain archived, and both contribute to the practice. Progress is measured less by output and more by continuity.

In a landscape that often prioritises speed and constant presence, his approach suggests another way of working… one that values process, learning, and repetition. It is an approach that does not aim to resolve itself, but to keep evolving alongside the person making the work.

Interview taken & written by Niharika Jain

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