On coming to terms with my vitiligo.
My problem is not with those who mispronounce it, but with those who do not make an effort to say it correctly even after being told how to.
During my internship, I was chided by a resident doctor for 'wasting my time' on a severely mentally ill patient with a history of self harm.
An essay on the letters I wrote to my grandfather, who died ten years ago.
What it is like to be part of a middle-class Bengali family that believes in the utopian concept of a casteless existence while practicing subtle casteism.
The exclusion of men from an institution does not trivialise its pursuits.