#it was a diwali event lol
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today was such a cool day bc i saw saw a bunch of forms of indian dance from mostly south india and genuinely it was fascinating
#text#it was a diwali event lol#the traditional dances were my faves but they did have a bunch of bwood#you don't see that everyday so im thankful i came to the event#im . north indian lol lmao
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The Halloween special was so nice!also I'm not sure if you celebrate it but Happy Choti Diwali!💗yk how ppl make memes abt the 9/11(which is a very bad thing to do) and call it dark humor?similarly do you think ppl would make memes about the McDonald's Massacre?
(I clearly have too much free time lol)
Hiya again <;3 @dottoreandcolumbinaslovechild
Thank you so much for enjoying it, next year I'll include some ideas people have recommended me in my inbox ;)
I forgot to reply to this on the day you sent it, but I hope you had a nice time!I had to Google what you meant because I didn't know what you were talking about and it sounds really cool! All the candles and colours look really cute! <33
If people want to make memes for Insatiable Madness then I would feel honoured, I've never had people express enjoyment about anything I've ever created or written before - so I'd feel really happy if someone were to show something they spent their own time creating! x
kind of serious talk underneath:
If you're not talking about Insatiable Madness, then I'm not sure what you mean by 'McDonald's Massacre'. Personally, I find making memes about tragic historic events as morally wrong considering many victims were affected and could be affected further if they read it today. But, I always have to remind myself at the end of the day it's still spreading awareness about what happened. Like, because I'm from the U.K and relatively young, I first found out about 9/11 and the Twin Towers existence from memes and eventually did my own research.
Does this mean all memes taking the mick of historical events are justified? Of course not. There's a line you don't cross, and I'm glad most of the time people don't act like dicks and post things that offend others without consequences online or in real life. I believe that as long as it doesn't hurt anyone, people are free to do whatever they like. An example I can give is a meme about the Holocaust a Jewish person posted - which was recorded in a lighthearted way, and taken in a lighthearted way from viewers. This, in my opinion, is what dark humour is. It talks and jokes about a situation in the past, and doesn't harm anyone in the future. This doesn't mean only Jewish people can joke about the Holocaust - but what I am saying is as long as nobody affected by the joke is offended or causes an uproar, I'm pretty sure it's okay.
As a British person, I and a lot of people across the globe make fun and talk about our Monarchy due to its history and current representation in the media. It's not hurting anyone, and talking about our Monarchy in this country in both positive and negative ways has been happening for hundreds of years. With that in mind, I personally see nothing wrong with pointing and making jokes - as long as it's not pulling and/or offending someone in the process.
Thank you all for reading if you made it this far. If you have any questions regarding anything I've said I will do my best to explain further - and if anybody would like to educate me on anything I might have missed, once again, feel free to tell me! I love learning about new things and being aware of events all over the world - good and bad.
edit: got rid of the sentence which was wrong, so sorry about that!
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Well. In light of that recent anon I think I’m going to have to add some rules and a disclaimer to each work.
In my requests, you can specify these certain characteristics and I will write as best as I can. I will make a list and add an asterisk (*) to the characteristic if I need you to be very specific as I don’t belong to that particular group/community and don’t want to mess up and be insensitive. I might also ask the anon to DM me so we can discuss details better.
I will write for:
※ FTM readers
※ Intersex readers*
※ Overweight readers*
※ Obese readers*
※ Short readers
※ Tall readers
※ Reader with dwarfism*
※ Amputee reader*
※ Reader with depression
※ Reader with ADHD*
※ Reader with other various mental conditions*
※ Reader with one or more physical conditions*
※ Reader with one or more neurological conditions*
※ Masculine readers
※ Feminine readers* (this one might be harder for me since I still have to perform feminity lol. But ask away)
※ Reader who celebrates festivities like Kwanzaa*, Hanukkah*, Christmas, and other events/times like Ramadan*, Diwali*, Thanksgiving*, St. Patrick’s Day*, and more.
I would totally write for readers of color but I’m not sure if I’m allowed to, since I’m not a person of color and don’t want to mess up. Please, feel free to comment on this post if you’re a POC and say what you think I should do.
I will not write for:
※ Reader with pronouns that are other than He/Him.
※ Female or fem-aligned readers, obviously.
※ Bottom readers.
※ Sub readers.
I’ll be adding a disclaimer to my works that says to not repost, edit, or redistribute to other platforms.
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Pre Deepavali 2022 has been eventful, the trip to the local makeshift shops with fireworks (looking warily at the drunk sales persons making their most with the income peak time), checking out the new vedis, but chickening out and turning them back in for more poothiris.. Lol..
Last few evenings have been full of poothiri, changu chakkaram and busvaanam expeditions with the kid, Roll cap gun replaced with light and sound gun for Sanju's taste and a day of blissfully wasteful play with friends chasing each other and playing cop. Great coming together of all families in the apartment complex to make a cracker of an evening today.
Coming to the non-cracker facet of Deepavali, The deepavali spirit started much earlier with happily gifting in advance, househelp and community helpers who serve us everyday. Then chose to send greeting cards to near and dear via India post - took this opportunity to take Sanju to the post office, explain about letters, stamps, show her the now dysfunctional post box (replaced by a cardboard box inside the PO) and last but not the least our very own gondhu aka gum in a steel tumbler.
At school Sanju had a diya decorating activity, exploring colours in different ways with friends is a delight, especially looking forward to the couple of holidays and festivities.
Weekend time, malls are upto to the game with the festive spirit and we used the various props to take cute happy deepavali pics after a full day of play, eat, shop after a long time.
My culinary experiment for Deepavali this time is the sole maa laadu, though a healthier version! Iteration 1 (with jaggery), iteration 2 (with naattu sakkarai) were rejected by the kid, finally iteration 3 with brown sugar with tips from my friend was accepted along with iteration 4, the backup surefire hit with white sugar.
Rest of pantry stocked with bakshanam from friendly local food caterer.
Winding up the day watching wonderful fireworks display in the night sky from the neighbourhood owls and here's wishing you all friends and family a very Happy Deepavali tomorrow :)
Some pics here..
Sanju rolling with poothiri
Diya painted n sprinkled with sequins
Diwali at Mall, keeping up with times
We are the brave, armed and ready video
4-in-1 experiment
Ah, the prized possessions
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#i just got back from a diwali event and im pooped#my head is hurting so bad lol#but i looked fire ngl#i just wished we hadnt sat next to the speaker cuz my hearing is a bit messed up now#everything seems too quiet#extra#text talk
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Family Prayer
Author: @mega-aulover
Prompt: Buttercup and Diwali are not things that go together. So even though Katniss dosen't like him much, she and Peeta try to make things easier for Buttercup on that day. [submitted by @everlurked]
Rating: Fluffy G
Author’s Note: This is a story about Diwali and wouldn’t have been possible without @cadsingh77 who spent weeks allowing me to ask all sorts of questions about Diwali and what it means to her. I patterned it on her descriptions. She read it, as well, to make sure there were no cultural faux pas. I apologize if there is anything amiss. Also, I’m remiss if I do not mention @norbertsmom who at the eleventh hour betaed this story. She’s my rock my bestie, and I would be nothing without her.
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Peeta glanced at his suit in the closet. His hands shook.
In a few hours he was going to meet the family of the love of his life.
He looked at the phone in his hands. He was lying in bed researching everything Diwali. His girlfriend Katniss had gone over the topic. She explained that just as sunset happens an elaborate puja, a prayer ceremony is done in a temple to begin the holiday. But to most Trinidadians or Trinis, as she called herself, like her family, they said little personal prayers in front of Laxmi, Saraswati and Ganesh and then they would light the diyas, little clay lamps, that they were going to placed in all of the rooms of the house.
Katniss made it all sound so simple. Diwali was a celebration of light. A victory over darkness. A day to wear new clothing, beautiful jewelry, sing, dance, pray, and light diyas. Katniss said any other guests would arrive after the prayers and they would have a ton of food and everyone would eat and hang out, kids would light sparklers, and there would be singing and dancing too.
Curious, Peeta watched every Bollywood movie on Netflix. Movies, however, never really explained everything. He put the phone down. He had to be honest with himself; Katniss’ assurances aside, he was a fish out of water no matter what he did. He was going to meet the most important people in Katniss’s life, her family.
In contrast, his parents were Dan and Cindy from Port Jefferson, Long Island. They owned a bakery near the ferry. They were dull people, they were like the parents of Ian Miller from My Big Fat Greek Wedding. But a lot colder and more dysfunctional, dressed in tans and beiges. Peeta constantly questioned why they would own a bakery that matched the color of bland. They never veered from the menu. Never introduced a new seasonal baked good. Peeta was stuck in that rut until he met Katniss and his entire world changed and color was introduced into his life.
Katniss was the electric jolt that kickstarted his dull heart to life.
The first time he tasted roti, the buttery tasting flat bread he literally cried.
From the pictures that Katniss shared of her family, he could tell they were a riot of awesomeness.
Katniss and her parents hailed from Trinidad and Tobago. Her family moved to Long Island from Germany. Her father was an engineer and physicist. He worked at the superconductor in Germany and then came to Long Island so that he could work on a project at Brookhaven National Laboratory. Her mother worked at Stony Brook University. She ran the nursing department.
Peeta and Katniss both attended Stony Brook University. He was on his way to a yoga class and she was in her Pink boxing class. From the glass covered room Peeta watched her hit the punching bag like Joe Fraser, and he was a goner. Peeta had a thing for strong women. His first middle school girlfriend bossed him and made him carry her books to and from class and he was a sucker for her, but she broke his heart. She told him she was only using him to get to his older brother Ryan. Peeta battled so much darkness in his life and what he needed was to chase the darkness away and to let the light into his heart. But he couldn’t deny he liked strong women.
There was something about a strong alpha woman who knew how to get things done, unlike his mother who was passive aggressive, and banged the pots in the kitchen and slammed refrigerator doors.
He sighed as he worried about tomorrow. He googled Diwali’s greetings and butchered the language as he tried to speak in Hindi.
Peeta sighed heavily.
Katniss’s mother invited him over the phone. She wanted him to come over before the prayers began. It was an honor because he was Katniss’ boyfriend, someone she chose despite her father trying to get her to date the son of a friend of his. Katniss put her figurative foot down and claimed she was dating Peeta. Her father didn’t want to meet him, but he knew of him.
So the pressure was on to be perfect. He didn’t want to say or do the wrong thing, especially in front of her family. His hands shook, this was important. He wanted to make a good impression on Katniss’ family, even if her father didn’t like him or the idea of him. Peeta wanted them to like him because, truth be told, his own family didn’t like him.
Peeta loved his family, but ever since he was little, he knew he didn’t fit into the landscape of his family. He was labeled as the emotional one. He was too irreverent for them. Peeta liked color. He loved to paint. He enjoyed the change in seasons where his family loved one season, summer, because they generated the most money then.
His family liked one or two flavors. Peeta loved all flavors, spicy ones, bold ones, subtle ones. They hated that he was always pushing to change the menu at the bakery. His childhood room was always the one his parents never showed off, because as a teen he painted the walls of his room every shade of orange. Peeta knew they sighed in relief when he decided to stay in the dorms at Stony Brook. His football scholarship allowed him to have that opportunity. He trained hard, studied hard, and loved hard.
“Katniss,” her name escaped his lips like fervent prayer and a wish. He loved her, was consumed by her, and he was so overly happy that she invited him to meet her family for Diwali. And now he had so much pent up energy he couldn’t sleep.
His teammates made fun of him, because he got a goofy lopsided I-got-my-hippopotamus-at-Christmas type grin, whenever Peeta thought of Katniss. He closed his eyes picturing her olive skin, thick straight dark hair braided into a rope, small pert nose, and silvery eyes that were breathtaking. Though it wasn’t her physical parts that made him fall in love. It was the woman who lay beneath the surface.
What made him sit up and take notice of Katniss after he saw her box, and he was out of the yoga room, was that there was a blonde girl at the gym working out. There were these idiots guys making fun of her, calling that poor girl fat, just because she was full figured. Katniss walked straight up to the guys and gave them a scowl full of fire and brimstone, called the girl hot and told her that if she were gay she’d do her in an instant. Then she told the guys that they could jackknife themselves off the roof of the building. Peeta had never seen anything sexier in his life. Katniss was full of fire and she was resplendent more so than the sun.
His phone buzzed drawing him away from his memories as the message came in.
KATNISS: Why are you still up?
Peeta grinned, his phone betrayed him. In some phones a little dot showed up next to the person when they were on their phone. Katniss must have noticed.
PEETA: Stalk much.
KATNISS: LOL
Peeta could see those three little dots moving as she wrote a reply.
For the most part Katniss wasn’t a talker. Unless she was passionate about the topic and then she was a chatterbox.
KATNISS: FUNNY. Seriously, tomorrow is going to be a long day. You need to sleep.
PEETA: Because tomorrow I am going to meet your family.
Peeta could see her rolling her eyes even through the phone.
KATNISS: You don’t have to be nervous.
PEETA: If you tell me all I have to do is be myself, I swear I am going to come dressed as Buddy the Elf.
KATNISS: Dork.
PEETA: Yes, but I’m your dork.
KATNISS: They’re going to love you.
Peeta sighed.
PEETA: This is important. I want to make a good impression. Your family is important to you and given that my family…
Peeta sighed. He’d brought Katniss to the bakery to meet his family because they didn’t have time for him. His father was pleasant. His mother, however, spoke loudly and slowly as if Katniss didn’t speak English. Katniss spoke various languages and was extremely intelligent. Her mother wanted her to be a doctor, but Katniss had a passion for the environment. Her major was environmental studies, with a minor in geology. She was brilliant and he felt like the dumb jock.
KATNISS: Your family is fine, well except for Ryan. Someone needs to examine him.
Peeta chuckled. His brother Rye stared at Katniss as if she was Christmas, Easter, and summer vacation all rolled up into one. He then proceeded to flirt with Katniss, by using every campy movie line known to mankind. In typical Rye fashion because he’d done it before to their other brother Lyle. Unfortunately in that instance the girl in question dumped Lyle to go out with Rye.
He sighed. That was his dysfunctional family. Family gatherings were uncomfortable events. They weren’t exactly nice to one another.
PEETA: I have no excuse for my brother.
Peeta decided to follow his text with a self deprecating joke. A truth, his family thought him the odd one in the family.
PEETA: But Ryan isn’t the bad apple. I’m not sure you know this, but I am the black sheep of the family.
KATNISS: You mean the sexy one.
A grin spread on his face at her compliment.
Katniss’ family was conservative, and by extent, so was Katniss. He respected her boundaries and her values. Family was everything to her and he loved her because of it, Katniss would lay her life on the line for her family.
PEETA: Have I told you today how much I love you.
KATNISS: No, but I do love to hear you say it.
Peeta pressed the little microphone and recorded his voice, which sounded rougher to his ears than normal.
PEETA: (a voice email) I love you Katniss. I love your mind. I love your kindness. I love how you always talk about your sister Prim. I love the way you adore your dad. I love the way you look up to your mother. I think you are the most beautiful soul. And I am nervous because if you are wonderful, then your family has to be just as great.
He meant every word.
They’d been dating for the last few months, but they’d been friends for two years. They weren’t easy years because of their schedules in school and the fact that her father had a mild heart attack right after they met. Peeta put himself in the friend zone because that’s what Katniss needed. He didn’t want her to feel pressure to feel romantic toward him when her dad, the most important man in her life, was ill.
In the end, the bonds of friendship grew to a love so sweet and pure, that it shined out of her silver eyes. The first time she realized the love she held for him was more than friendship left him breathless, like stepping into a world filled with brilliant colors, light and joy.
KATNISS: (a voice email) I love you too.
Her voice was breathy and filled with her heartfelt emotion.
Peeta couldn’t help but sigh contentedly.
KATNISS: Now as for tomorrow, don’t worry. When they see what a great guy you are, they will love you.
Peeta sighed.
KATNISS: NOW GO TO SLEEP, MELLARK!
PEETA: Yes ma’am.
He grinned and would have followed her directions, but instead he stood from his bed and went into his suite kitchen. He needed to bake. It was the only thing he knew that would calm him down. He decided to make chocolate using the vegetarian items he purchased in the store. Come the morning he would make the Laddoos he planned to bring with him. In Hindi they were called Laddu but in Trinidad they were known as Laddoo.
Making the chocolate eased his nerves, so he actually got some sleep. In the morning, he showered and set to work on making the Laddoos. By three o’clock he was done, and all he had to do was wrap up the presents. Taking a red ribbon, he tied each box the way he’d done so many times at the bakery.
His suitemates were gone. No doubt causing trouble somewhere on campus, which gave Peeta the time he needed to get ready. He took out his new suit. Even though Katniss told him he could wear a nice pair of slacks and shirt, Peeta bought a suit that was on sale for the special occasion.
Taking a deep breath he took the small presents he had for her family. They weren’t necessary, but he wanted to make a good impression. He gathered up the Laddoos, the chocolate, the flowers - marigolds he sourced at the local home depot, and the paintings he made of her family made from the memory of the pictures she’d shown him.
He drove, heading to the Everdeen home in Mount Sinai. The cottage-like house looked like something out of a movie or TV show: warm, inviting, like a real home, one filled with love, and not pretend.
As he walked up, he could hear laughter, genuine laughter, followed by singing and joy. Running a hand through his blond wavy locks he took a deep breath. “Okay Mellark, just be yourself,” he whispered, as he stood in front of the door.
He raised his hand to knock on the door and his breath caught at the man standing there looking more like a navy seal instead of a physicist. This was Katniss’ dad. His chrome eyes were hard and they took him apart, much the way a defensive end could read a play and pick it apart while holding their defense line.
“Happy Diwali.” Peeta tried to say confidently but his voice cracked. He could feel himself sweating.
Her father raised an eyebrow. “You are Peeta Mellark.”
Peeta nodded.
“Rahul!” A statuesque woman with blonde hair and pale blue eyes swatted Katniss’ father’s arm. He watched her sneak around him, dressed in a traditional red sari with gold thread. “Please behave.” Mrs. Everdeen quietly gave her husband a look. Her golden bangles clinked as she placed her hand dramatically on her hip. Peeta was glad Katniss had gone over the different fashions. He studied each one because he would do anything for Katniss.
Peeta watched as her father’s hard analytical eyes softened the moment he beheld Katniss’ mother. Peeta could see how Katniss’ parents were a unit of one. They were in love and either one would fight the shadows and all of the evil in the world for their other half. “Anjali.”
“I am Katniss’ mother, this is her father,” her pale eyes sparkled. “Please come in, we were waiting for your arrival. Come in,” she ushered him.
The home was two stories, to the left a halfway with rooms, to the right a living room, dining area, and a den to the far back. The house was decorated with warm rich colors, but everything was tied around the family, as pictures dotted the walls. There were lights everywhere hanging from the walls, the clay diya’s sat on the mantel. Peeta stood in front of a picture of Katniss on her father’s shoulders, her twin braids flowing, her eyes crinkled in pure happiness.
“Ohhhh you’re cute,” a younger, but deeper voice than Katniss’ said with impish mischief.
Primrose took after Katniss’ mother, with the flaxen hair and the pale blue eyes. Katniss explained that her mother was of British descent, while her father’s family, although sporting a European name, was from India. His great-grandparents came to Trinidad, fell in love with the island and stayed.
Her mother walked away from her very wealthy family back in Trinidad to marry Katniss’ father. It was a little like they were the original Romeo and Julliet.
His parents got together because his dad knocked up his mom.
“Primrose!” Mrs. Everdeen admonished.
“What,” Prim said. Her pale blue eyes were inquisitive as she walked around him. The way Katniss talked about her sister, Peeta had expected a little kid, but Prim was as tall as he was. Her loose pajama-like trousers that narrowed at her ankles, called shalwar, swooshed around as she made her round. Her red kameez, a flowing tunic with intricate gold patterns reminded Peeta of the pattern Mrs. Everdeen wore on her sari.
Prim was everything Katniss was not. She was a bold bright bubbly girl, who at this moment was making sure he was the real deal and not some mindless jerk. He stood, letting her because it was important that her family liked him. He wanted to be accepted. He felt his face flame up under the scrutiny.
“I understand why my boring sister is constantly sighing.”
Peeta grinned, then he said, “Oh these are for you.” He gave them the presents. The flowers, the chocolate, and the sweetened chickpea Laddoos he made by hand for them.
“Oh these are fragrant, where did you purchase them?”
“He made them.” The soft voice that came behind him made his heart rate triple.
Peeta turned around and there stood Katniss wearing an emerald green lenghas. She had explained what it looked like, but at this moment, his brain that was always filled with words was momentarily empty, vanquished by her beauty. He swallowed, mouth slightly ajar. His eyes darted from the perfection of her face with those silvery eyes that captivated him, and the peek of dark hair that was hidden by the sari.
Katniss held a shiny brass plate, she called a Tarrier, but in Hindi it was known as a Thali, containing coconut, almonds, and other sweets. Katniss told him the plate belonged to her great-grandmother Veronica. When her mother married her father, her great-grandmother gave it to her insisting it should go to her first born. He swore for a second he could see a miniature Katniss with his eyes staring up at him and holding the Tarrier.
“He made them?” Primrose asked, Peeta could hear the intense curiosity in her sister’s voice.
“His family are bakers, and Peeta is an amazing cook.”
“Really,” her father said, and his voice, the way he said that one word snapped Peeta out of his hazy fog.
“Ah,” he nervously said. “I made her cheese buns,” Peeta felt the heat rising from his neck and caused those red splotches that his brothers made fun of.
“Cheese buns,” her father repeated.
“When you were in the hospital, daddy,” her eyes did not hide the pain of recalling those days. “Peeta noticed I wasn’t eating and cajoled me into eating cheese buns,” Katniss words were so soft. “He was the friend I leaned on for support when…” her voice trailed.
Peeta watched her father’s face take a look of adoring tenderness at his eldest, and when his eyes turned to Peeta they weren’t as frosty as they had been.
“He even took me to temple to pray,” Katniss whispered.
“In Selden?”
“Yes, daddy,” Katniss quietly said.
“Rahul,” Katniss’ mother chided. She cupped his cheeks, “Such a nice young man. Did you make the chocolate as well?”
Peeta nodded, his eyes went back to her father. He couldn’t mess this up.
Her mother smiled serenely, then her eyes lit with happiness as if she made a startling connection. “Oh! Pundit Sharma was right; they were destined in the stars.”
“Star crossed lovers just like you and mom,” Prim said.
Her father cut his eyes away.
“Oh my, these chocolates….” Prim moaned.
“Primrose!” Her mother admonished.
“What, he said they were for us,” Prim shrugged, plopping a chocolate in her mouth. “I’d say he’s golden. So what does a cheese bun taste like?”
“Primrose, really, must you think only of your stomach?” Katniss shook her head.
“Girls,” their father said in a stern tone of voice. “It’s near sunset. Upstairs with the lot of you. I swear corralling a dozen baby ducks would be easier.”
The women headed upstairs. Peeta wasn’t sure, but her father swept a hand for him to follow him upstairs.
Peeta wasn’t sure what he was expecting, hopefully like something out of Khabi Kushi Khabi Gham. They had a small altar where he watched all of the women present the offerings and began to bow their heads. He stood behind quietly observing, but when Katniss began to pray it was like a song and her words that he didn’t understand wrapped around his heart and his lashes fluttered closed and a single tear fell down his face. Song after song her voice combined with that of her father, her mother and sister caused him to realize just how much he wanted to be part of this family, to be loved and accepted.
He too prayed for a family to want him, to be needed.
Peeta was so wrapped up in the moment when it was over he opened his eyes to find her mother standing before him with trembling lips, and watery blue eyes.
“Bend down son,” her father said with warmth in his voice. “She’s going to honor you by putting the sindoor on your forehead.” He pointed to his forehead, though his eyes had completely lost the frost. They were filled with admiration and the same warmth he had in his voice. Her father looked at Katniss and nodded as if giving her his blessings.
Unsure if what he had just seen was real, his eyes went to Katniss, but Prim said, “Go ahead Peeta, my father has just fallen for you too.” Her voice squeaked with that enthusiasm only a teenager could have. She wiped the tears from her face as well.
Peeta bent down slightly. Mrs. Everdeen’s hand slipped to the Tarrier and with her ring finger she pressed it into the red dust Katniss’ father called sindoor.
The press of her finger was light. “When my daughter marries you. You will sprinkle this sindor over the part in her hair to symbolize her marriage to you.”
Peeta’s eyes flew to her father who nodded. “Welcome to the family son.” He clasped his back and said. “Now let’s go eat. I’m starving.”
Peeta couldn’t help but grin. He gazed at Katniss who came to him, her smile shy. He was going to follow them, but katniss put her hand on his, then stepped up and placed a small peck on his cheek. Then winked sassily. “I told you they would love you.”
And like that, his prayers were answered; he now had a family.
Years later, when he stood in the same position watching his little girl singing the puja, holding the brass tarrier, alongside Katniss. Just as in that memory from years ago he listened to Katniss voice blend with their daughter. Their voices blended in with his father-in-law Rahul, Primrose and her soon to be fiancé. Peeta was grateful that his prayers were answered, the darkness was swept away and light filled his soul. And he was granted the family he always wanted.
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Heyy sae!! 💜🍀
Can u please explain to me what diwali is?
I hope I'm not disrespectful doing this ask
no no u are not! alright so diwali (short for deepawali which means "rows of lit lamps" in sanskrit) is the biggest hindu festival (it's actually a 5 day festival, with diwali being the main event lol) it is called the festival of lights as on this day we decorate our homes with lights and diyas (small light lamps) and we celebrate it with firecrackers and sweets, it's basically a festival of new beginnings and the triumph of good over evil and light over darkness (u can read more about the religious backstory behind it on google) ♡
#i hope this was understandable haha im bad with words sjsjjsjsjs#ask sae#ask taechnological#learning life
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immj2 01.12.20 lb
ishani like this grubby-pawed bitch took control of the whole place the second you were gone, but dadi’s like okkkkkkk hold your horses, that’s not the whole truth. she did what she was supposed to. what you would have done if you were here.
V looking left-right like he’s watching a tennis match, listening to the devil and angel on his shoulders lol.
hein???? maut ke 40th day? i thought he said 16 days in the last ep???? 16 days for the ghaav to fill and what not in that convo kabir and him had....... HOW LONG HAVE Y’ALL BEEN STANDING HERE HAVING THIS SCENE???????????????
anyway, bhai is really calling her out for getting all ready to become suhaagan again not 40 days after he went missing. body tak nahi mili thi!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
dadi again coming to her defense again. thank god. warna madam toh mooh nahi kholti, aur khadi khadi beizzati sehti rehti, from a dude who as far as she knows isn’t even her real husband.
shoulder devil is back to add some more mirch masala to story.
lol kabir’s bhaiyya waale feelings for ishani are long-dead and gone. he’s like “isse chhodke bohut badi galti kardi. current mein jhulas ke marr gayi hoti toh aaj itna mooh nahi phaadti” hahahahahahaha. little sisters, huh, kabir???? a real pain, amirite?????
lmaooooooooooooooooooooooooo ishani’s like GHOOOOOOOOOOOORTA KYA HAI BEYYYY???? ASLKAJDSALKDJLAKJS WHEN I SAY I LOVE THIS GIRL THE FUCKING MOST IN THIS SHOWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!
riddhima is very happy to hear ishani proclaim from danke ki chottttt pe ki meraaaaa vansh bhaiiiiiii, iss ghar ka asli haqqdaaar waapas aa gaya hai!!!!!
lmaoooooooooooooooooooooo chachi is like oh god ishani agli class humari lagayegiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii. LORDDDDDD I WISH.
but nope, she’s on her fave topic “we hate riddhima” so she’s gonna be on this soapbox for a while now.
ishani said riddhima has a “sharp brain” and lmao ok. yeah sure, her brain as sharp as a fucking bowling ball. i’ve seen pillows and goldfish bowls that are sharper than riddhima’s fucking brain. she’s a member of the rare and exclusive smooth brain club. no thoughts, this bitch empty, yeeeeeeeeeeeet.
ishani continues to bitch bitch bitch and V ka paara bad raha haiiiiii. death glare getting more and more intense.
oh dang!!!!!!!!!!!
LMAO RIDDHIMA’S DUMB ASS IS LIKE “WOW, GOOD JOB VIHAAN, TUM WAISE HI REACT KAR RAHE HO JAISE VANSH KARTA!” MAN I CAN’T WITH HOW GODDAMN STOOOOPID SHE IS ANYMORE.
LOL WHUTTTT???? ARE THEY GONNA FIGHT WITH THESE FLAMING HAVAN KUND LAKDIIIIIS???? HAHAHAHA.
the bloodlust in riddhima’s eyes is a biggggggg mood, lol. i too would like to see these two fight again. preferably shirtless.
damnit kabir decided to be the bigger man and throw the stick back into the havan kund.
blah blah he’s like sautela hi sahi, you’re still my brother. i don’t want you to misunderstand me. i left no stone unturned looking for your body. and i was gonna leave the city. but riddhima thought i should take on the responsibilities of this house.
riddhima and V’s reactions to this bs, lmao.
anyway, he’s like now you’re back, it’s best i leave. i’m going to take something that’s precious to me, it’s my right.
lol pls. he’d murder this Mummy in a fucking heartbeat for a hissa of this riyaasat.
LMAO ISSKI KHUSHI TOH DEKHOOOOO. I LOVE IT.
Mummy like kabir tfffff you doing, this is not our plan!!!!!! aunty, learn to cut your losses. honestly. this is why y’all don’t win.
“ruko!!!!!!!!!!!”
manhooson ka reaction.
LMAO ISHANI’S REACTION. SHE’S HONESTLY THE MOST RELATABLE PERSON HERE.
“tumhe nahi lagta ki tum mujhse bohut hi keemti cheez cheen ke lee jaa rahe ho???”
Mummy like yesssssss, my time to shine, time for Mamta Overload Acting.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHA.
lol riddhima and ishani’s reactions, while dadi is closing her eyes in horror at his bad manners.
RIDDHIMA’S DUMBASS IS STILL LIKE, I DIDN’T TELL VIHAAN THIS IS VANSH’S SAAFA, THEN HOW DID HE KNOW????????????
“thank you. jo mera hai, woh mera hi rahega.”
bwahahahahahahahahahahaha ghazabbbbbb beizzati.
riddhima has never been this turned on in her lifeeeeee.
OH HO. NOW I GET THAT ANON WHO WAS CUSSING OUT DADIIIII. OUFFFFFFFF YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR DADIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
V ka baahari face is:
but his internal face is:
same as wifey and sis, lol.
ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh dadi’s laying on the emotional blackmail thickkkkkkk ki are you really my vansh, my vansh always kept his relationships close no matter how much tension blah blah. fuck. fuck fuck fuck fuckkkkkkkkkkkkk.
“dushmani bohut nibhaa li. ab rishtey nibhaatey hain.”
MMMMHMMMMM YEAH I’D LIKE TO SEE Y’ALL BE RISHTA’D WITH EACH OTHER. SEAL THIS DEAL WITH A KISS, BOYSSSSSS!!!!!
ok fine a hug will do too.
LMAO THE MURDER LOOKS ON BOTH SIDES I LOVE THESE PETTY ASSHOLES SO MUCH.
aslkjdlaskjdlaskjdlaskjdlaksjdlkjasldkjlaskdjlaskjdlsakdlaskldjlas time for kabir to get an angre of his own (mishra?????) coz V is fully threatening to destroyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy him where he stands.
bwahahahahahaha that sweet as pie smile. butter wouldn’t melt in this mouth.
riddhima like ugh, ok anyway, time to carry out predetermined maafi kaaryakram.
lmao she’s telling vihaan ki mere vansh ka dil bohutttttt bada tha, aur woh hota toh mujhe maaf kar deta, and his face hahahahahahahaha:
‘yeah, not anymore, b. that was before you betrayed me and made me jump off a cliff, all for that chomu ex of yours.’
hahahahahahahahahahahaha he’s gone off-script. going super duper hard on the dhokaaaaaaaaaaaaa.
omggggggggggggg he’s going into details ki dadi just told you to marry him secure your future, she wouldn’t have expected you to say yes AND THIS IDIOT GIRL IS LIKE HAS VIHAAN BEING WATCHING THE HOUSE FROM BEFORE????????? THE THOUGHT THAT HE’S VANSH STILLLLLLLLLLLLLLL HASN’T CROSSED HER PEA SIZED BRAIN. HONESTLY I CANNOT WITH HER ANYMORE.
lol she’s hissing “yeh kyaaaaa naatak laga rakha hai????” par bhai toh apne alag hi trip par hain. character mein ghussnaa isse hi kehte hain, riddhima. good thing daniel day-lewis has already retired, coz this one reallllllly coming for his spot with the intenseeeee method acting.
dadi is like beta plssssssssssssss, but ishani and chachi are piling on riddhima. love them messy bitches.
ALSO OH MY GOD HE’S GIVING HER THIS VERYYYYYYYYYYYYY VANSH-Y LOOK AND SHE STILL HASN’T GOTTEN IT WHY IS SHE LIKE THIS?!!?!?!?!?!?!?!!?!?!?
“i want a divorce.”
even kabir is scandalized at the turn of events!!!!!!!!!!!
but lmao, ishani’s reaction is best, as usual.
HE WENT UPSTAIRS AND PACKED A SUITCASE FOR HER AND THREW IT AND RIDDHIMA STILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL IS WONDERING HOW DOES HE KNOW SO MANY DETAILS THAT I DIDN’T TELL HIM?!?!!?!?!?!?! re deva uthaaaaa le mujheeeeeeeeeeee.
“jab tak divorce nahi ho jaata, tum outhouse mein rahogi.”
inke liye toh diwali waapas aa gayi saal mein doosri baar.
dadi is trying to intervene and lmao ishani is emotionally blackmailing her saying don’t increase bhai ka darddddddd by opposing him this time.
“kabhi nahi socha tha ki tum aisa kuch karoge. apni maa ki kasam khaayi thi tumne.”
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA V YOU ABSOLUTE BASTARD I LOVE YOUUUUUUUUUUU
lmao waise bhi maa toh already marr chuki hai, jhoooti kasam khaane se kaunsa dobara marr jaati?
trollololololololololol ghar se get outhouse kar diyaaaa (only my fellow mallus gonna get this joke.)
nanad is here to help. “itna haq toh mera bhi banta haina!”
PEHLI BAAR ISS MANHOOS KE HARKATON PE HASSI AUR PYAAR AAYA HAI. GOOOOOOD JOB, V2.0!!!!! KEEEEEEP UP THE GOOD WORK!!!!!!!!
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Chopped: Holiday Trope Exchange!
Welcome to the Chopped: Holiday Gift Exchange! A Secret Santa style gift exchange, but with a Chopped Twist! If you’re new to this event, welcome!! We hope you choose to join in on our festive fun!!
The Chopped: Holiday Trope Exchange is a double blind fic exchange, meaning you wont know who you’re writing for, or who is writing for you! Here’s how it works:
First, take a look at our list and pick four (4) tropes that you’d like to be included in your gift!!
Then, sign up here!!
Remember, this event is double blind!! This is to help preserve that truly quintessential Chopped experience, where any writer can take the tropes and make something unique and surprising! Because of this, you wont be able to reach out to your recipient for any more info, and that means what you give your writer is all they have to go on, so try to be clear! If there is something you really want, or really don’t want, make sure to tell them during this stage of the exchange!
Then...wait! We will have a two week sign up period, so after you’ve signed up, just keep your ask box open and be prepared to get your prompt! We will send out your prompts between December 1st and December 5th to your ask box, and then the writing period begins!
Fics are due on December 24th at 11:59pm!!! Submit your fics to our AO3 collection, which can be found here! Please be sure to have them in on time, because we will be reviewing them to make sure all your tropes are included! This AO3 collection is unrevealed, which means once your fic is submitted, you won’t be able to see it until we reveal them! If you’re worried about whether we received it or not, you can always DM us to ask!
We will review all the fics and then we will reveal them all on December 27th! (We like to enjoy the holidays with our families too guys lol)!
Signs-ups can be found here:
https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/GMWHJHF
Please remember that assignments will be delivered to your Ask Box, so please make sure you have those open, and please be sure not to post the ask you receive, so it can be kept anonymous.
Timeline:
Sign Up Starts: NOW!
Sign Up Ends: 11:59pm on November 21st!
Trope Assignments Released: Between December 1st and December 5th
Fics Are Due: 11:59pm on December 24th!
Fics Revealed: December 27th!
All times are in Eastern Standard Time (EST).
Theme Explanation:
For this Holiday Theme, fics must be set sometime between November through January. They may be centered around certain holidays like, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanza, Winter Solstice, Boxing Day, Las Posadas, Diwali, New Year’s Eve/Day, etc. Or they may be centered around holiday type activities like, Christmas Tree Lightings, Ice Skating, Polar Plunges, Family/Friends’ Gatherings, Work Parties, Traveling, Religious Celebrations, etc.
Rules:
Our rules from the previous iterations of this challenge have worked out really well for us, so we are going to stick to them! If you need a refresher, the rules are as follows:
The requirements for the fics entered into the competition will be:
Must be The 100 Characters
Must fit the theme
Must use ALL of the tropes selected by your recipient. If you don’t use the tropes, we will contact you and ask you to remedy the issue. Please remember, these are a gift for someone else, and by signing up, you’re agreeing to include the tropes your recipient has asked for!
There is no maximum word count, but your fics must be at least 2,000 words.
All ratings G through M are welcome. E ratings are not permitted for this round. [M ratings are permitted to allow for sex scenes in your fics while also ensuring that people who do not enjoy smut fics won’t end up with a gift including smut. For sex scenes in an M rated fic, think of it like a pg-13 rom-com, where the scene starts, gets a little hot and heavy, but fades to black before any explicit sexual content occurs.]
You will be disqualified if you include:
Rape!
Underage! (This means no high school AU with sex, no teacher/student if the student is underage, zero adult/under 18 relationships!)
Incest! (incest includes adopted siblings, parent/child, step siblings, biological siblings, or any familial relationship, blood related or not!).
Negativity towards any character or ship! (This includes any sort of abuse perpetrated by a character intending to paint them in a negative light, negative statements about a character intended purely to express your dislike of a character, or things of that nature.)
Smut! For this round only, smut is also not permitted. Sex scenes without explicit sexual content are permitted, but genitalia and the description of sexual acts are not permitted.
This event was created to help get creative and different fics out into the world, and to create a fun, positive fandom experience for everyone! In order to ensure that we achieve that goal of a positive experience, we reserve the right to disqualify anyone if we are reading and we think it violates any of our rules.
Please remember that we will reveal the fics all on the same day, and until then this is a secret gift exchange!! Please only submit your fics to the AO3 Collection, and do not post them on your personal blog or on your AO3 account until the fics have been posted by us, and do not reveal what tropes you were assigned before the reveal.
Submit your fics to the AO3 Collection for Chopped: Holiday Trope Exchange 2020 here: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Chopped_Holiday_Trope_Exchange
If you have any questions or concerns please send an ask or dm @thelittlefanpire or @dylanobrienisbatman!
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Ram/Sita + spy au+ friends to lovers + “you know i’ll do anything for you”
lol this...AGAIN....spun out of my control.....and is apparently 6020 words while still having massive massive holes in characterization and plot and ...general stuff..lol. anyways hope u like it? it ended up being way less Spy Spy and more ....arranged marriage au...... because everything i’ve written has basically been that now lol and raazi is the only spy movie i could think of that works bc rama and sita dont have mr and mrs smith vibes to me. love u!!!!!!
----
“Are you serious?”
The face on the screen is somehow almost as familiar as Sita’s own -- she’s never been one for the gossip rags, but at some point, it’s almost harder not to know the features of someone who’s been famous since his parents announced his conception.
“You know him, then.” Sita’s handler Kaikeyi seems remarkably even-tempered for a woman charging Sita, her top recruit, to attach herself to the arm of Kaikey’s stepson -- a boy that the papers seem to believe Kaikeyi prefers even to her own Bharata. Sita raises an incredulous eyebrow before realizing that Kaikeyi does actually expect Sita to recite what she knows about her newest target.
“Ramachandra Raghav,” Sita recites from memory, “but the papers call him Ram. Only son of Dasaratha and his first wife Kausalya, sole presumptive inheritor to the Kosala industries fortune. Dasaratha Raghav and his wife publicly struggled to conceive and adopted a daughter, Shanta, nine years before they had Ram whose birth coincided with the release of Dasartha’s final film and his entry into politics.” Sita purses her lips, unsure if she should continue, but Kaikeyi remains impassive. “Dasaratha and Kausalya divorced when Ram was five, and three months later Dasaratha married you.” Judiciously Sita chooses not to include the fact that Kaikeyi, who during her acting days had only been paired with the already greying movie star, reportedly delivered her eight-pound son Bharata three months early.
Kaikeyi rolls her eyes, still the same striking green that had made her first film such a hit. “Of course I was pregnant when we got married. What else.”
Sita racks her mind. “The custody case was unusual -- Kausalya shifted to America with her children, but Dasaratha petitioned for them to stay with him in India. Shanta was 16 and decided to finish school abroad with Kausalya, but the courts decided that Ram would spend alternate years with each parent until he reached his majority.” It was the oddity of the arrangement that kept the Indian public so desperate for news about what otherwise might have been just another star-turned-politician’s son: pictures of Bharata, who was constantly being presented at building openings, movie premiers and other assorted Party functions went for nearly a quarter of the price as those of Ram whose arrival at the Delhi airport became more and more of a national event in sync with his father’s increasing political power. The exoticism of his American English was viewed with as much pride as his unaccented Hindi which the Party often used to great effect, having him canvass his father’s constituents on camera the year Dasaratha was put forward as the party’s candidate for Chief Minister and releasing them online.
But it has been a few years since Ram was last in India for more than a month or so’s vacation -- at 16 he graduated from school and sent the Indian media into near paralytic shock when he decided to attend university in Delhi. Not even three years dimmed the public’s fascination, which quickly turned into genuine discontent when it was announced that Ram had accepted an offer to do his doctorate in California and had barely been seen in India since.
“You want me to investigate a Chief Minister’s son?” Again, Sita leaves unsaid the rumors that swirl even in headquarters -- that Dasaratha’s relative competency at state-wide management has made him a viable candidate for even higher office. That after the last election’s dismal results, it is apparent that Dasaratha might be the only remaining Party figure popular enough to lead a coalition that would bring them to power in the Centre after nearly a decade at the periphery.
Kaikeyi laughs. “Not quite,” she says, still perfect red lips twisting in a faint smile, “Ram is in New York now working for the UN, and it seems that he will have a long and illustrious career in diplomacy which will bring him into contact with all sorts of people of interest to our national security agencies. We need someone at his side to make sure that those contacts are being utilized to their full potential.”
Sita frowns. “He’s too young to need a trusted aide or a secretary.”
“Correct. That’s why we’re sending you to New York as his wife.”
--
When Sita is 18, a woman comes up to her on the street asking if she’d like to be a model. As a laugh Sita shows up at what the woman’s business card says is the head-hunting agency’s main office only to be quickly moved to a backroom, divested of her backpack, phone and shoes and investing her with a new lifelong wariness of strangers with offers too good to be true. Her father is the aging yet venerable University President -- they don’t have the money for ransom, but Sita just as quickly rules out potential trafficking since her father has one or two connections that would raise quite the fuss if he informed them that his daughter was missing. But before she can think of another reason behind her apparent kidnapping, the door opens, and Sita’s life changes with the incoming rush of bright light into the dark room.
“You’re..” she splutters, eyes raking up and down the perfect figure of the woman in front of her.
“Yes,” Kaikeyi Raghav says, sunglasses perched delicately at the top of her head as she adjusts the pallu of her elegant chiffon sari. “I’m sorry for all the confusion, but we really needed to get you alone before we could try and talk to you.”
“Talk,” Sita rasps, suddenly hyper aware of her own dry throat. Kaikeyi sighs, clapping her hands once before taking a bottle of water that appeared almost instantly at the door’s threshold, opening the cap and offering it to Sita who gulps it down. “Talk about what?” Sita asks.
“One of our associates brought you to our attention about a year ago thinking that with some work you could be turned into something quite extraordinary.” Kaikeyi brings up her right hand to pull down her hair from its updo, the cascades only making her more breathtaking to Sita, whose father always had a soft spot for the old Dasaratha-Kaikeyi films. “I’ve been observing you ever since, and recently came to the same conclusion.”
Sita can’t help but glow at the praise, even as she tries to keep her sense of rationality -- she’s been kidnapped after all, even if by one of the nation’s most illustrious figures. First: “Are you trying to traffick me into sex work?”
Kaikeyi laughs, and the sound is clear and captivating like a bell. The more Sita watches, the smaller details begin to stand out -- a mole just slightly to the right of Kaikeyi’s collarbone, the green of the embroidery that brings out those colors in her eyes, the red fingernails that perfectly match Kaikeyi’s lips.
“Do I look like a pimp?” Kaikeyi’s tone is one that does not truly seek a response, though Sita is not sure she even has one. The proclivities of the rich and powerful are rumored to skew to the truly scandalous, and there is no reason that an elegant woman could not be the front for the procurement of such services.
“Then is this supposed to be recruitment for politics?” Sita has never thought herself particularly gifted at deception, which seems to be the first requirement for a fruitful career of public service.
“No,” Kaikeyi laughs again, “but I find it interesting that you didn’t consider that I might be signing you on as a heroine.”
“I don’t have a face for film,” Sita says, “and I have no intention of leaving Delhi.”
“You have exactly the face for film,” Kaikeyi counters, “but I agree -- your mind would be as wasted as mine in Bombay.”
“Then politics?” Sita, who was born and brought up in Calcutta before her father was given a position in Delhi had never given much thought to the Raghav’s stronghold Ayodhya -- she can’t imagine what Kaikeyi could possibly see in her.
Kaikeyi shakes her head. “What do you know about this country’s intelligence services?”
Sita blinks. “You want me to be a spy?”
--
Five years after their first meeting, Sita has learned how to handle all sorts of weapons including her own body, how to speak a dozen languages, how to scope out a room. In some strange way, Kaikeyi seems to have filled the gaping hole left behind by Sita’s long-dead mother Sunaina, who Sita is not entirely sure would approve of what her daughter decided to make of her life. There isn’t quite a bond of affection, but there is loyalty beyond even what Sita would have given her own mother -- no better proof than the fact that here Sita is agreeing to marry Kaikeyi’s stepson entirely because Kaikeyi demanded it, where Sunaina would have had quite the shock if she had tried to suggest a man for Sita to wed. Sita had dreamed of marrying for love, but loyalty she reasons is close enough.
Ostensibly, Sita has finished her MA with high honors and works at an NGO that enjoys Kaikeyi’s patronage -- this, they decide, is how the papers will be told Kaikeyi knows Sita. There are a few strategically leaked photos of Kaikeyi first paying the NGO a visit, then taking Sita out for a series of lunches. Sita finally travels to the ancestral Raghav mansion in Ayodhya for Diwali, bringing along her father to meet and pay his respects to his favorite screen star.
“You must be Sita’s father,” Dasaratha booms when they approach, somehow brimming with the same vitality and presence that drew such crowds to the theater in his youth. He grins, left arm wound around Kaikeyi’s waist at his side as he turns to speak to Sita. “My wife has grown old and taken up matchmaking to pass the time, but from what I have seen you would be a fine choice for my Ram.”
Janaka stiffens at Sita’s side, hearing about such an arrangement for the first time, but Dasaratha’s charisma pulls him into its orbit as Dasaratha reaches out his hands. “I confess that I was never well educated myself, but I believe it would only bring me and my family honor to be able to call someone as learned as yourself ‘Brother.’”
Janaka is sold. Sita, who has never been quite sure about the real dynamic between Kaikeyi and her husband, realizes with some relief that there is genuine fondness, even love, in the smile she flashes her husband. Perhaps there might be hope for Sita herself.
Dasaratha insists that the informal engagement is enough to justify Sita and her father’s extended stay at the mansion. After one day, he calls Ram himself informing his son that Dasaratha has found him a wife. Within a week, the news reports that Dasaratha’s eldest son has found himself back on Indian soil.
Sita finally leaves the mansion two weeks after Diwali with the instruction that she must treat the property as her own home whenever she returns to India -- after all, Dasaratha booms, she is his beloved Ram’s wife now, and Dasaratha’s daughter now as much as Janaka’s.
--
“So,” Sita says on their first night, sitting on what's supposed to be their marital bed, “what name should I call you?”
Her husband raises an eyebrow, silent just as he has been for almost the entire week since he was called home. Kaikeyi, when Sita asked for details, had not elaborated on the character of her stepson nor had she offered details about how Sita might best seduce him.
“Follow your instincts,” Kaikeyi had said, smiling at Sita’s frustration. “You’ll know what I mean when you spend time with him.”
Well, Sita thinks perversely, her instincts are telling her to confess everything to the man she has promised herself to in front of her father, and God almighty. Somehow, she is meant to maintain a lifelong relationship with a man she is only now speaking to, and to mine his contacts for information to send back to her handler, his stepmother.
“The papers call you Ram,” Sita says, only a little sullen at the thought of the task ahead of her, “as does your family. Is that what you prefer to go by?”
“My father’s family,” he corrects mildly, and Sita immediately flushes at the mistake. Kaushalya and Shanta had of course come, but arrived only the night before the wedding -- Sita had met them both the morning of, but only enough to touch their feet and have Kaushalya cluck, teary-eyed, over the beauty of Sita in her wedding sari.
“Of course,” Kaushalya had said off-handedly to Shanta standing at her side, “Kaikeyi has always had excellent taste.” Sita had not trusted herself to answer.
“Will we live with your mother in America?” Sita has been provided with what she considers shockingly little information regarding her future living situation -- Kaikeyi insists that, largely, this assignment requires Sita to effectively live her own life and as such being more information than provided a new wife would only detract from her performance.
He shakes his head. “My mother and Shanta live in New York too, but Shanta needed to be closer to Columbia and...” he looks away, suddenly just slightly awkward. “Things changed so much for Mother throughout my life that I think she was finally able to find some type of stability when I was away at university. When it turned out that I was moving back, I didn’t want to be the one to throw her life back into flux.”
Sita nods. “Are you close?”
Her husband hums, fingers of one hand slightly worrying at the hem of a blanket. “As much as I can be, having spent every other year away.”
Sita can’t imagine -- for years, the story of the boy caught so explicitly between two worlds has always been interesting or amusing, but now that she’s confronted with him in the flesh she knows that it must have been sad, too. She tries to imagine a mother committing to the notion that the child she waves off at the airport gate would not be the one who returned, and finds that it’s impossible.
“It must have been difficult,” she offers, not elaborating on whether she is speaking of her husband’s family, or himself.
He nods. “Father and Mother Kaikeyi always had Bharata, and the Party. I was glad when Mother found Sumitra and the boys.”
Sita’s eyes widen. “A friend?”
He turns his body to look at her for the first time head-on. “No,” he says, eyes boring into Sita’s, exuding the same gravitational force as his father. “Her wife. The boys are my Father’s during a...period of disagreement with Mother Kaikeyi, and when Sumitra decided to keep them Mother brought her to New York to have the children. They fell in love.”
This is a test, Sita realizes, and for the first time, she realizes the wisdom of Kaikeyi’s lack of preparatory material even as she curses Kaikeyi in equal measure. She would have liked to have not been blindsided, but there is a truth to her reaction she could never have mimicked so effectively. Her mind roils with the amount of information relayed in such few sentences -- Dasaratha, already so old, still fathering sons. Kaikeyi and her husband having a disagreement so strident it sent him into another’s arms. Kausalya, raising more of Dasaratha’s children as her own. Kausalya, in love with a woman.
Her silence has drawn on too long during her contemplation, and her husband’s eyes have gone cold as he leans away from her.
“You call her Sumitra,” she decides on, “but if she’s your mother’s wife, should I call her mother in law as well?”
Her husband is wide-eyed himself for a moment, but then his face cracks into a smile just dripping with sudden, unexpected delight. Sita’s heart skips a beat at the sight.
“It would make her very happy if you did,” he says. “And as for me, my mother has always insisted on calling me Ramachandra and none of my siblings use my name at all. You can call me whatever you’d like.”
---
“Rama!” Sita exclaims, trying to rise from the chair behind her desk and managing to trip on the hanging sleeve of the sweater she had been sitting on. She laughs, picking herself up off the ground. “Oh, and you brought the boys too!”
It’s been a year since Sita moved to New York, a year in which she’s found fulfilling work at a South Asian women’s shelter, learned how to navigate herself via subway to find the best of ten different cuisines in New York, read three books related to Shanta’s new area of interest, featured in the boys’ Instagram Lives over 20 different times, and found herself a best friend in the form of her husband.
Ram, she had decided, was how the public knew him even if his father’s family chose the same. Ramachandra was much too long. Rama was short, sweet, vowels easy in Sita’s mouth.
“No one calls me that,” he’d said when she’d first used the name, his tone again one of unexpected delight. “I’ve always thought it was strange that they never did.”
Sita’s due a lunch break, but she’s always been prone to eating at her desk unless she’s eating out -- a budgeted, once weekly expense she keeps track of after the humiliating exorbitancy of her first month’s bill.
“We have money,” Rama had said, bemused at Sita’s profuse apologies. “I’ve got a trust fund, but my salary certainly pays well enough for this.” He’d glanced at the bill Sita had handed him as she had wrung her hands in front of him, so unsure of how she’d managed to spend so much. “It looks like this is mostly just restaurant charges anyway, and,” he’d looked up at Sita with a smile, rising to hold her hands before she could twist them again, “you live in New York now. I’m glad that you’ve spent the last month trying all sorts of the things the city has to offer. It’s exactly what I did when I moved back, except I probably spent twice as much.”
Sita had felt the first of many twin pangs at his kindness -- one pang of joy, at being with someone so well suited to herself, and another of sorrow when she thought of how their relationship was founded on a lie. Kaikeyi had told Sita that there was no need to actively seek out contacts for at least the first year, and so the extent of her real work was having regular conversations with Kaikeyi that easily blurred the line between professional and personal relationships.
“Is he any good at sex,” Kaikeyi had asked one day after asking for a report about Rama’s “family situation” which Sita found distressingly similar to the inquiries of a second wife wondering about her husband’s former paramours. Sita had hung up.
“Sita?” Sita starts, bringing herself out of her reverie and smiling.
“Sorry,” she says, grabbing her coat. “I was just thinking about something.”
“Something interesting?” He takes the coat and holds it out for Sita to slip her arms into, smoothing down the lapels when she turns around. “I spent the whole morning stuck in the single least productive set of meetings, and knowing them they’re probably arguing about what appetizers to get for lunch. I’ve never felt as lucky as I did when I told them all that, unfortunately, I’d already logged that I was taking a half-day to take care of my brothers.”
The boys scowl. “We’re thirteen years old,” Lakshmana says. Shatrughana nods in agreement. “We could have gone home by ourselves!”
Sita flashes Rama a smile, leaning down with an expression as if in deep thought. “That’s true enough -- if you’d like we can send you home and just join you after I finish work, but aren’t your moms on a health kick right now?”
Lakshmana, always the more suspicious of the pair, crosses his arms. “And?”
“Well,” Sita drawls, hearing Rama snort softly next to her, “your brother and I were thinking of taking you to the greasiest joint we can find in walking distance, and then to 7/11 after to find you both snacks for when you spend the weekend at our apartment. But if you’d rather not, that’s totally ok too!”
The boys fall for the line, hook and sinker.
“Oh,” Lakshmana says, voice suddenly a pitch lower than usual as he squares his shoulders in what Sita doesn’t think any of the three recognize is his best imitation of Rama, “that’s ok.” He looks over at Shatrughana, who nods. “Family is important. Let’s go eat!”
“Thank you,” Rama says softly after they’ve finally decided where to eat and are walking in the correct direction. Sita raises an eyebrow. “You’re good with the boys,” he explains, shrugging his shoulders. “I was expecting to have to take them out on my own, and stay at my mother’s when I wanted to spend time with them but --”
Sita interrupts him before he says something truly embarrassing about what she only sees as a pleasure. “It’s easy when they’re such good kids,” she says, “and I would have done it even if it was harder. It’s the least I could have done for you, after everything.”
Everything being the credit cards he’d given her when they landed, his insistence that he wouldn’t monitor her spending and would set up a bank account for her that he would periodically transfer money into but not be able to access. Everything being the books he shared with her and the books he read on her recommendation, in turn, the concerts they’d attended together, the plays and musicals and movies and street festivals. Everything being the conversations they’d had on the couch until late at night, the meals he learned to cook because they reminded her of home.
The one similarity underlying all others between them, Sita realized one day, was that they had both grown up lonely, without anyone person, they could claim truly, entirely understood them. Neither of them had had a best friend until they met the other. By unspoken agreement, they had not consummated their marriage that first night, nor during the first few hectic months of Sita’s acclimation to New York. Eventually, it became easier to simply maintain things as they were and to enjoy the novelty of a companion before things became ... complicated.
If a part of Sita insisted that she hold off from sex so as to not build even more on an inherently unstable foundation -- if that same part screamed that her husband had given her trust beyond all else and she squandered the gift every day she didn’t tell him who she really was -- then that was something for Sita, and only Sita, to think about.
---
“Oh,” Sita hears from the bathroom threshold, glancing through the mirror at the figure Rama cuts in his tailored tuxedo. It’s been nearly a year and six months since their marriage, and what Sita thought of as friendship has since bloomed into a wild, uncontrollable love. Yet, she keeps her love to herself, knowing that it would be cruel to offer him fruit with a rotted core.
He cares too, she knows -- only a fool could willingly ignore the little signs of it he offers so freely, long and lingering looks, kisses to her cheek, forehead, the corner of her lips and the edges of her knuckles. She knows that her resistance to further intimacy must confuse him, perhaps even hurt him, but still, she can’t help but think that things would be worse if she gave in only for him to find out later. Sometimes, she wonders if Dasaratha knows about Kaikeyi -- if Lakshmana and Shatrughana owe their existence to a revelation of the truth which so discomfited their sire that he sought another woman to drown in.
Sita is selfish, far too much so, to allow the truth to poison what she now has, half-life as it is. So she smiles over meals Rama cooks for her, meets the contacts Kaikeyi has started sending her way during lunch breaks she takes less frequently at her desk and begins preparing her heart for when things will inevitably fall apart. Today, she and Rama will attend a gala meant to raise funds for refugees which will double as a drop-point for some dissident’s data collection from the last five years on the inside of their regime’s surveillance operation.
“You look beautiful,” Rama says, walking in. Sita’s hands, haphazardly smoothing down the last wisps of hair that refuse to curve to her skull in their updo, pause when he places his own over them. “Is that my mother’s sari?”
Sita nods. “The style has come back,” she says, reaching out to the counter for the strand of jasmine Sumitra had sent to their apartment to be paired with Kausalya’s sari. “Even Kaikeyi approved, which means that this outfit technically has the approval of all three of your mothers, and your sister as well.”
Rama smiles softly, taking the jasmine and pinning it up with a deft hand that speaks of experience. “I’ve never been one to keep up with fashion trends, but I think you wear it very well.”
“Kaikeyi says it makes me look like a movie star.” In order for the drop to be successful, Kaikeyi had demanded Sita pull out all the stops possible within the relatively demure confines of charity-wear. Sita’s blouse plunges at the back, skin unobstructed by a pallu or bra, and she shivers slightly when Rama’s left-hand traces lines.
“I suppose she would know,” he says absently, eyes raking up and down at Sita’s reflection in the mirror they both face, passing over her eyes rimmed with kohl and her dark red lips. His right-hand falls to his pocket, searching for a moment before he finds what he needs, pulling out a pair of beautiful earrings Sita hadn’t known he had.
“Mother Kaikeyi had me get these from storage a few weeks ago, but I wasn’t sure if they would suit what you were planning on wearing.” They look at the pieces in his hands, realizing together how well the earrings will look with Sita’s sari.
“Will you put them on me,” Sita asks, voice thin and breathy despite herself. His hands are gentle, just slightly cool to the touch as they gently thread the earrings into her lobes, tightening the screws and caressing her ear before moving to ghost over Sita’s hips. If Sita moved into his touch, allowed him to grasp her body so hard that she bruised if she turned her face just slightly and brushed her lips against his -- her entire body is one flame, but even now she is attending this gala with her own motive, even has a small gun she plans on holstering to her left leg as insurance. She can’t.
She can’t. Sita takes one step forward, Rama’s hands falling back to his own sides.
“We’ll be late,” Sita says, moving them back into purgatory instead of choosing heaven or hell.
Rama shakes his head slightly, taking a breath. “Yes,” he replies, tone never betraying a sense of the frustration he must feel. He smiles again, holding out a hand. Sita will tell him one day, she tells herself. He deserves that much.
“Let’s go.”
--
One day, it seems, will be sooner rather than later. Sita’s very first drop of this assignment, after nearly two years of prep, and it seems like she’s going to end up just another statistic, shot in the head for all her efforts.
Worse, she thinks, she’s going to break Rama’s heart. The dissident was less careful than they’d thought, trusted someone they shouldn’t have, and now they’re both being held up against a wall and being told to recite any final prayers for their souls. Sita’s single measly gun at her hip wouldn’t change the odds of 10 against 2, especially since no amount of physical training will significantly change the realities of her smaller physique going up against larger numbers of even better-trained muscle.
She only wishes that she’d thrown caution to the wind once, had told Rama the truth and let the cards fall where they may. She wishes she could see him one more time and apologize, reassure him that her love was true even if her initial motives weren’t.
“Hey,” she hears from somewhere in the distance, away from their cluster of a firing squad. Her heart simultaneously sinks and soars to realize that the voice is Rama. “That’s my wife!”
The leader laughs, just as the dissident sobs. Sita clutches their hand tighter. “Then I’m sorry to say that she hasn’t been much of a wife,” the leader sneers, “just another one of Kaikeyi’s little rats meddling where they’re unwanted.”
“Run!” Sita screams, deciding that she’d rather Rama be alive than hear her confessions before he too is killed. “For my sake run, before they decide to kill you too!” In the back of her mind, she knows that it’s already too late -- people are executed for far less than what Rama is doing, which is continuing to walk forward.
He sighs audibly, not even pausing his forward momentum. “I’m sorry,” he says, and for some reason, Sita genuinely believes that he is. “You know I’d do anything for you, but there’s something I haven’t told you yet about me.”
Shouldn’t that be Sita’s line? “What,” she croaks, captivated by how he’s somehow holding the group hostage, each of them curiously watching as he walks right up to wear Sita and her companion stand against the wall. “Please,” she sobs, breaking her own vow to face death with dignity, “if you’ve ever cared about me, you would leave.”
Rama’s fingers come up to trace Sita’s bruised eye, her puffy lip, the cut at her cheekbone. “Concussion?” he asks, completely ignoring Sita’s plea.
“It hardly matters,” she says, “when I’m going to die in about five minutes. Just like you will if you don’t leave right now.”
Rama hums, right hand shifting down to her thigh, where her gun is strapped. Sita’s eyes widen as though the fabric he seems to be easing the gun out and up to where the fabric wraps around her waist. Left hand still caressing her cheek as the right holds the gun in place against her stomach, he leans in to gently kiss Sita’s forehead.
“All three of us are going to live tonight,” he says, so confident that it seems as if it would be absurd for Sita to think anything else as if even three against 10 the odds are stacked firmly in their favor. “Hold this for me?”
Sita’s hand shifts down to the gun still hidden in the fabric as Rama steps away and turns, his hands now busy divesting himself of his tuxedo jacket and the bowtie Sita had so painstakingly learned how to tie for him earlier.
“Now,” he says casually, as everyone watches him worry at his cufflinks, dropping them in the pile now at Sita’s feet, later followed by his wedding ring. “Unfortunately for you all this means that you will not be surviving this encounter. Do you have any last words?”
The leader laughs. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Rama’s left-hand reaches out behind him. Sita, as if in a trance, dutifully fishes out the gun and places it in his hand before realizing that she has something she needs to say before it's too late. His own confidence gives her some of her own, but still how could he possibly win? How will they possibly survive -- and if, against all odds they do, what on earth is she going to say?
So: “I love you,” she blurts out, smiling slightly when Rama’s head twists to look at her, incredulous, but before he can respond the first bullet fires and he explodes into action.
For the first two minutes, the fight is 10 against 1 and still, Rama makes it look like child play. Weaving in and out, every shot he fires taking down at least one if not more of the men against him. At some point, he grabs another gun and tosses it in Sita’s direction, whose entrance into the melee serves to turn the tide even further. At least she’s always been a good shot, she thinks to herself, taking a man out even when her head rings with what she knows her husband accurately diagnosed as the beginning of a concussion. Part of her can’t do anything but watch as her studious, gentle husband breaks someone’s nose before shooting them through the heart.
Within five minutes, it’s over. Just like Rama said, all ten men are dead at their feet. The gun drops out of his hand, slippery now with other people’s blood. Sita’s kill count is 2. He’s just killed eight men.
“I...” Sita starts, realizing she doesn’t know what to say. She swallows, looking at the carnage around her and tries again to reconcile the sight with Rama’s soft sweaters, old fashioned glasses, and aversion of horror films. “How?”
Rama purses his lips. “Same as you,” he says, wiping his hands on his pants with a grimace. “Mother Kaikeyi trained me, and while I was in India I was sent on assignment.”
Sita pauses. “You’re a spy?” Even as she says it, she knows that she’s in no position to speak with such scandal in her voice -- yet, she thinks, she had thought she knew him, that he had trusted her.
Rama laughs as he never has: short, hollow, bitter. “No,” he says, “not anymore. And even when I was, I was more of a hitman than anything else. I quit and moved away, and I assume that’s why Mother Kaikeyi sent someone to make sure I didn’t step too far out of line as a rogue element.”
Somehow, Sita thinks, this is worse than she imagined. “No,” she says, rushing forward, hands wringing as if he’s looking again at her first credit card bill. “I asked at the beginning. It was never about you.”
Rama is silent for a moment that seems to stretch endlessly as the adrenaline wears off for Sita, and her aches start to make themselves known. Her face throbs, her head spins, and there’s something in the vicinity of her ribs that twinges while she stands still -- not broken, she doesn’t think, but maybe bruised? Rama’s hands, almost as if it were against his mind’s will, come to stop her hands and tangle his fingers in his own as they do nothing but stare into the darkness over the other’s shoulder. “I’m glad that that’s what you were told,” he says eventually, and Sita suddenly realizes that there is an entire lifetime’s worth of complication she hadn’t known existed.
“I wasn’t told anything,” she says, sure now that Dasaratha knows at least part of Kaikeyi’s truth, because why else would Kaikeyi have made sure that Sita walked into her relationship as transparent as possible. “Everything we shared was real.” She pauses, uncertain. “At least from my end.”
Rama’s hands are like vices, clutching Sita’s fingers so hard it feels like he’s cut her circulation. “From mine as well. So when you just said--”
“Yes,” Sita says, unable to say now what fear of imminent death had so successfully inspired. “Before, I was afraid of you finding out about me, but yes of course.”
Rama exhales. “I’d hoped that’s what was stopping you, but I was never entirely sure that you really were one of Mother Kaikeyi’s recruits,” he smiles with a hint of self-deprecation. “You’re a good actor, you know.”
“No,” Sita says, bringing her hands up to cup his face, finally deciding to be brave. “I’m really not.” She leans in.
Their first kiss is gentle, tastes just slightly like blood, and ends quickly when Sita’s lip is irritated and makes itself known. It’s perfect.
“I love you,” Rama breathes into the sliver of space when they part, one hand drifting to hold her at the waist, another rubbing small circles into the nape of her neck. Sita’s head spins, and not only from the concussion.
“Hey,” she hears from somewhere behind. “I’m glad you two seem to have made up...and also .... that we’re all alive. But can we go now?”
Sita laughs, and then immediately regrets doing so. “Yes,” she says as Rama holds her still, “let's go.”
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The issue was not that she was smoking. The issue is she lied about having asthma to promote a product. The issue is her appealing to the public to not use crackers on diwali, while she used them at her wedding. She's a liar.
The issue is that this is not an issue. Do you think asthmatics never smoke? lol You think it has to be a lie because she’s smoking while drinking, which is what almost every single asthmatic I know (myself included) does. Is it a good decision? No. But that doesn’t mean we don’t want to live in a world with less air pollution so that we have the choice whether or not we fuck up our lungs, that choice isn’t made for us by the environment. I’ll give you the firecrackers at her wedding if that’s indeed true, but major events that pollute the air because everyone is shooting off crackers makes it really hard for people with breathing problems to even safely go outside.
The bottom line is that we make decisions that are counterintuitive to our health all the time. But no one should walk outside and struggle to breathe, wtf. You guys are really, really nitpicking here.
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Do you ever wear Indian clothes?
I do, but mainly for cultural events (i.e. Diwali), where I wear my ghagra choli, which is like this long, full skirt, with an embellished cropped top and a dupatta, which is a matching chiffon scarf. HERE’s a picture of what ghagra cholis look like (mine’s similar, but it’s pink, black and gold, and the top is much less cropped lol). I rarely wear saris, mainly because they are very tricky to walk in and I have not yet mastered the art (fun story: I was going to wear one to graduation, but we had to do this ceremonial walk thing down stairs, and I just knew I was going to fall if I did, so I ended up wearing a dress instead).
I also wear my kurtas (short, full-sleeved, loose shirts) a lot. I’ve got four silk ones from Christina (HERE) and they’re some of my favourite pieces in my wardrobe because they literally go with anything and look amazing. Skirts, jeans, formal, casual...whatever the occasion, they’re perfect. Like I’ve worn one to both dinner at Carluccio’s in the mall and the Burj al-Arab, so if that isn’t evidence of how versatile they are, I don’t know what is!
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New Post has been published on https://shovelnews.com/most-googled-2018-australia-were-a-stupid-country-junkee/
Most Googled 2018: Australia, We're A Stupid Country - Junkee
If, like us, you’re nearly exhausted by all the end of year lists and reviews from every single god damn app and internet site, fear not, as this latest one from Google is a little bit different.
Unlike Instagram’s for example, which focused on all the love spread across the world via the photo-based social media service, Google’s most searched trends for 2018 are not inspiring or heartwarming at all. They are in fact a snapshot of one of our nation’s foremost exports: stupidity.
2018 was a dumb as hell year in many ways and Australians are certainly not immune from the odd bout of idiocy (shout out to our politicians!) so whilst it shouldn’t be surprising that Aussies en masse googled “How to win Powerball” this year, it’s still mildly concerning.
As are “What is ball tampering” and “How to cook corn” to be honest, but nothing comes close to how gloriously embarrassing it is how many of you all Googled “What is ligma”.
LIGMA stands for Loose Internal Gene Mi-Asintits, FYI.
The aforementioned searches all rank in the top ten of their respective groupings, but in an overall sense, the biggest trends for Aussies in 2018 were a mix of sporting events, celebrity deaths and, of course, Meghan Markle.
Meghan is also responsible for the number one news-related search trend “Royal Wedding” with “Thai cave rescue” in second and the ultimately super spicy Wentworth by-election coming in third. Cop a look at those full lists below:
Overall
World Cup
Commonwealth Games
Meghan Markle
Avicii
Coinspot
Anthony Bourdain
US Open Tennis
Mac Miller
Bitcoin price
Black Panther
News events
Royal Wedding
Thai cave rescue
Wentworth by-election
My health record
Beaumont children
Hawaii volcano
California fires
Listeria
US midterm elections
Blood moon
As for individual celebs, oh look it’s Meghan Markle taking out top spot again alongside pop star Demi Lovato and dearly departed Queen frontman Freddie Mercury, no doubt due to the popularity of 2018 biopic Bohemian Rhapsody.
Specifically in regards to local “celebs” Barnaby Joyce’s year of stepping on rake after rake after rake was enough to catapult him to the number one most searched Aussie, with the triumvirate of evil completed with Scott Morrison and Peter Dutton in 2nd and 3rd.
Global figures
Meghan Markle
Demi Lovato
Freddie Mercury
Khloe Kardashian
Logan Paul
Tristan Thompson
Hailey Baldwin
Sylvester Stallone
Khabib
Travis Scott
Aussies
Barnaby Joyce
Scott Morrison
Peter Dutton
Billy Slater
Craig McLachlan
Vikki Campion
David Warner
Chopper Read
Nick Cummins
Andrew Gaff
Loss
Avicii
Anthony Bourdain
Mac Miller
xxxtentacion
Stan Lee
Kate Spade
Aretha Franklin
Burt Reynolds
Jessica Falkholt
Eurydice Dixon
Here’s the absolute best bit though mates, the thoroughly face-palm inducing “How to”s and “what is”s of Aussie Googlers. Unsurprisingly “How to opt out of my health record” was numero uno, after the disastrous rollout of the government’s online health data hub causing widespread privacy concerns.
Despite now generally being considered worthless and a huge mistake, Aussies galore were still keen to wrap their heads around the concept of bitcoin, with related searches featuring in a couple of the most popular queries. If you’re still curious on “How to buy bitcoin” here’s the proper answer: don’t.
Also, huge LOL to “why is my internet so slow” ranking near the top. Australia, Australia, this is you!
How to…?
How to opt out of my health record
How to watch World Cup in Australia
How to win Powerball
How to delete Instagram
Google Arts and Culture face match how to
How to buy bitcoin
How to lose weight fast
How to screenshot on iPhone X
How to delete Facebook
How to lose belly fat
What is…?
What is bitcoin
What is listeria
What is ligma
What is hazing
What is a mud room
What is the capital of California
What is open on Good Friday
What is Diwali
What is blockchain
What is ball tampering
Why is…?
Why is State of Origin on Sunday
Why is it called Good Friday
Why is Russia OAR
Why is Australia Day Jan 26
Why is Tim Cahill not playing tonight
Why is ANZAC Day important
Why is Australia Day celebrated
Why is my internet so slow
Why is Nick Cummins called the honey badger
Why is my poop green
Recipes
Keto recipes
Beef stroganoff recipes
Chicken curry recipes
Frittata recipes
Gnocchi recipes
Risotto recipes
Chicken soup recipes
Fried rice recipes
Omelette recipes
Beef stew recipes
“How to cook…?”
How to cook corned beef
How to cook eggplant
How to cook tofu
How to cook silverside
How to cook beetroot
How to cook rice in the microwave
How to cook corn
How to cook couscous
How to cook crayfish
How to cook barramundi
Well, there you go. Aussies had a very silly year. Thanks for being there for us Google!
Source: https://junkee.com/google-trends-2018/186754
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How come I get along with moms better than people my own age? Like seriously, I made friends with this Indian aunty at my school’s Diwali event and she has already texted me a few times tonight inviting me for dinner next week. This isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I said that I want Indian friends lol
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