What losing my phone taught me about myself

No, it’s not about my pointless Insta stories.

What losing my smartphone taught me about myself | Chai High is an Indian blog started by Shivani KrishanLess than 24 hours after I prided myself on my independence, my cell phone crashed. Ordinarily, this would seem like two separate instances—a woman’s independence and a rectangular handheld gadget—but it wasn’t quite so simple. The fleeting sense of achievement I’d experienced was entirely dependent on Uber, a car booking app, and Google Maps. I was alone in Chandigarh for the very first time, and I was relying on the good sense and navigation expertise of my Uber driver, and my ability to read Google Maps, to deliver me in one piece to my ailing grandmother. And I was mighty proud of myself at that. So, a day later, when my phone died, it took away my independence, sense of empowerment and feeling of being in control. The ground beneath my feet had shifted. And this raised a few questions in my mind about the extent to which we rely on technology today.

It’s interesting how the smart phone has enabled the independence of women. In a new city? Find your way with Google Maps. Don’t have a car? Book an Uber. Hungry? Order on Swiggy. Don’t know where to stay? Book an Airbnb. Want to pay a bill? Choose Netbanking. Unlike paper maps, regular taxis, restaurant home delivery and hotels, these “apps” are accountable if your driver misbehaves, food is contaminated, or room is dirty. And with users giving ratings and writing firsthand reviews, it only adds to the feeling of empowerment, when you make a choice based on your deduction of the average opinion of 14910 others. It’s hard to explain the feeling of elation you get on landing the ideal balance of an above average rating that also fits in your budget. Therefore, it was only natural, that when my source of empowerment and entertainment stopped functioning, I felt like a lost child.

But is this healthy? The fact that we no longer remember phone numbers, that addresses have lost their meaning, that our sense of direction is dependent on an electronic voice, that we constantly need to check our phones for WhatsApp messages and memes from friends, to validate our existence? Many would hands down say no. After all, isn’t it a sign of severe deterioration of cognitive ability to no longer be able to memorize phone numbers or recall directions? Whatever happened to the feeling of joy on locating an address based on a “landmark” from which you were to take the second left, cross the fifth vegetable seller and then look for a black gate–“no not the large one, but the smaller bling-and-miss one”—and then take a U turn to arrive at your destination? Whatever happened to good ol’ talking to people over the phone rather than half-hearted WhatsApp texts and Instagram DMs that are often “read” and not replied to?

It’s hard to argue with the logic.

Nevertheless, all the cognition required in earlier days to traverse new grounds only kept us from venturing beyond our comfort zones. For, if we were lost and didn’t have a cell phone, how were we to call for help, WhatsApp our live location to a friend or google map our way to the nearest familiar space? Unsurprisingly, rarely did women venture beyond the familiar when travelling alone, and even when they did, they’d dare not travel after sunset. Today, we travel at all hours of the day and night, within the country and abroad, and often take off into open roads and unknown streets, by Google mapping our way.

Which brings me to the “godsent” smartphone, a device I openly dissed and loved to mock, until I was left without it, in an unfamiliar city. The thing is, I had always associated phones with phone calls, social media narcissism–#ootds and #wanderlusts, and text messages, things I was happy to forgo as an experiment, for a limited amount of time. What I was unprepared for, was losing out on Uber, Google Maps, Netbanking, Airplane ticket download, E-Aadhar card and the fact that, increasingly, almost every transaction required an OTP. What I was also not expecting, was losing out on my independence.

The sense of invincibility, I’d felt as I made my way in a relatively unknown city to my grand mum’s quarters in an Uber, Google-mapping the directions, was replaced with a feeling of complete disorientation and dread when my phone blanked out. Which made it clear that I am only as independent and empowered as my smartphone. Take it away, and I am a nothing person. Does this mean, I have a false sense of self? That I am not really as independent as I think I am? That I am only as smart, independent and empowered as my smartphone allows me to be? That, by being dependent on my phone, I am simply entrusting a gadget the place previous generations granted their husbands and fathers? That it’s time to end this toxic relationship disguised as a happily-ever-after? That it’s finally time to break up?

Since I respect my phone too much to ghost it, I should probably just start getting really “busy”.

 

 

 

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How I, a 20-something girl, started wearing sarees to work

I almost missed my graduation ceremony because I was at the salon to get my saree draped. I didn’t trust the “eyebrow didi” (who had enthusiastically agreed to help every single girl who’d asked her in the days leading up to D-day) to find time for the relatively soft-spoken me. And I most definitely did not trust my mother’s off-white silk saree in the hands of my 21-year-old classmates who’d have a better chance of accidentally throwing the nine yards in a fictitious paper shredder than managing to get halfway through a draping exercise. So, I ended up missing my batch photograph, and just about made it to collect my certificate and award.

Five years later, today, I can (almost) drape a saree in my sleep and get through a day without fearing a minor wardrobe malfunction every time I have to do a little more than breathe. So, what brought about this shift? Apart from an all-prevailing boredom with the contents of my closet (yes, really), an innate need to experiment with my look, and one of Anavila’s earlier shows (where linen sarees actually looked super comfy!), it was an admiration of the simple elegance with which the Maharashtrian ladies on the local trains carried themselves; their neatly parted hair, gajras, gold hoops and sensibly draped sarees (no floating pallus, please) inspired in me the need to emulate their effortless aesthetic. I found myself wanting to normalise the act of wearing a saree on an ordinary day, to put it in the same league as a bright floral dress or a pair of jeans.

This combined with a lifetime of admiring my mother every time she emerged from her boudoir in a saree, and having two grandmothers with diverse aesthetics—fluttering chiffons and ornate, heirloom jewellery on one side, and starched kota sarees with pearls on the other—helped nudge me into the saree-wearing world armed with a mishmash aesthetic that, I believe, is clearly my own.

Around the same time as I was beginning to consider the possibility of wearing a saree on an ordinary day, I was just about finding my personal sense of style. Increasingly, I was gravitating towards handlooms, linens, and cottons, with skirts and dresses tailored out of traditional textiles and weaves. A trial of one of my mother’s Bhutanese skirts brought about this shift—I had nothing to wear one time, and she happily lent a skirt to me, mainly because it was a far cry from the shorter lengths I would sport at the time. Reminiscent of lungis, straight cut and ankle length, my mother’s “skirts” could be considered the transitional outfit that helped ease me into wearing a saree.

It took me several attempts of putting on a saree only to discard it seconds after, till I mustered up the courage to ignore the nagging feeling of doubt and reach work. As expected, the initial reaction in a legging and denim-wearing world was, “Puja at home?” But when I told them no, I wore this of my own accord, to mix things up, the response was heart-warming. I was bombarded with compliments all day, with people going as far as saying I should wear sarees every day! By the end, I was encouraged, and my confidence was at an all-time high. “I can do this”, I thought to myself.

I started my saree-wearing journey with a single white cotton. Within a few months, I had added a black version to the mix. A year later, my school friend decided to gift me a black and white cotton saree. Now, I knew, I was a saree wearer! Soon, I was rummaging through my mother’s closet, picking up hand-painted and hand-embroidered versions that had been handed down to her by her mother. I realised, I had a “type”. Dull, “ugly”, sarees, that no one my age would be caught dead in!

What helped in normalising the saree, was making the drape as comfortable as possible. Think shorter lengths, pinned pleats and compact pallus that could be swung around, teamed with loose blouses or tank tops for a relaxed, easy vibe. Also, staying as close to my everyday slightly-undone aesthetic—messy hair and everything—helped me feel like me, by emphasising that I had not been airlifted from a puja and dropped off at work. With time, I got bolder, and added sneakers and bright socks to the mix (such fun!).

People still tell me “Only you can pull it off”, to which I tell them, “So can you”, not out of politeness, but because I strongly believe everyone can take a saree and make it their own. For me, simple cottons work well, because I tend to add interest with sneakers and a random hairdo. For you, bright printed chiffons with Grecian sandals and poker straight hair, may work wonders. Or a starched kota with a crisp and sheer organza blouse and leather broguesOr a plain georgette saree with a matching georgette blouse and simple thong sandals. But you have to try it to believe it.

Once you find your very own kind of everyday-friendly drape, you’ll find yourself looking grudgingly at denims and leggings, dresses will no longer occupy prime real estate in your wardrobe, and a whole new world will open up in the form of frilly petticoats, crop tops, statement blouses that double up as underpinnings for a solid saree, and jewellery! You’ll begin to see every new trend in the context of a saree. Soon, questions like this will fill your mind: Can I team a corset belt with a crepe saree? Can I wear an off-shoulder, peasant top with a simple mul saree? Can I add ruffles to my blouse? And, just like that, you will have one more option to choose from, every morning. And who amongst us, apart from the Steve Jobs-inspired, does not want yet another outfit choice?


 

 

In defence of the “ugly” dress

The uglier the better.

Every wardrobe should have at least one ugly dress. The long, loose kind, that hangs on your frame reminiscent of a scarecrow wearing your grandma’s faded nightgown. You know, for those days when you feel particularly lazy to rack your brains on what shirt goes with what skirt.

The ugly dress covers flab. The ugly dress allows you to overeat. The ugly dress allows you to run on the platform when you’re just about missing your train, without fear of ripping your skintight jeans, dropping a strap and having a minor wardrobe malfunction in the face of 100 creepy train travellers.

The ugly dress makes you look “prettier” than you really are. The ugly dress is so ugly that anything compared to it looks stunning. So, even if you feel like shit, when you put on your ugly dress, instantly you will feel better – after all you can’t be “uglier” than this dress can you?

The key to buying an “ugly” dress is to buy one that’s a few notches below you on the looks scale. By which I mean – a dress that won’t steal your thunder. When people see you, your dress won’t be the first thing they see. Instead, the focus will be on your face. That’s the best thing about the ugly dress – it’s completely missable.

The ugly dress comes in ugly colours. Like yellow ochre, mud brown, rusty red, algae green; earthy hues.  Extremely flattering especially when you darken your eyes with some kohl, and enhance your natural lip colour with a lip jelly that changes colour with your lip temperature and ph. The ugly dress is great for those fuss-free days when you aren’t in the mood to dress sharp, yet want to feel beautiful.

The ugly dress can also be made pretty. With silver jewellery and pretty sandals. Then, you can take the dress out for brunch. It can also be made sporty – with a pair of white converse sneakers, in which case you’re fully equipped to race against time to catch an about-to-depart train or flight.

So, the next time you’re out shopping, don’t let your eyes gravitate towards the shimmering pinks and delicate laces. Instead look out for the rugged, sensible cotton counter, with the ultra-ugly printed dresses.

Happy shopping. 🙂

 

 

13 letters to body parts written by surprisingly sporting men.

The reason I say “surprisingly sporting” is probably based on a little ignorance on my part. I had assumed that men won’t be as sporting as women when it came to writing about their bodies. That they’d laugh at me for even asking. So, for weeks, I contemplated if I should indeed do a “Letters to Body Parts – Men” like I’d done this one with women.

But, at some point, I decided it was worth a try. I thought to myself – if I got men to open up about their feelings with regards to their bodies, I’d have helped kickstart an important conversation.

And I was in for a pleasant surprise – most men I spoke to didn’t need much convincing (those that did – well, their letters haven’t made it here – they didn’t write). 

Men were more than happy to share their stories of love, hate, exasperation and gratefulness towards their bodies. While some have written longer, beautifully-articulated letters, others have penned fun poems and sweet, little thank you notes.

And mind you – not all men featured here are writers and poets. There are copywriters (obviously), but there are also sales-people, IIT-IIM geniuses, brand strategists, PHD scholars, designers, and directors. There are letters by 26-year-olds and those by 40-year-olds. And if there’s one thing all these lovely people have in common, it is the incredible self-confidence and a deep sense of self-awareness to be able to put themselves out there with their words.

Do take the time out to read each beautifully-crafted letter. It will make you smile.

Dear Calves | Letters to Body Parts | Chai High is an Indian Blog started by Shivani Krishan

Dear Left Brain | Letters from Men to their body parts | Notes to the self | Chai High is an Indian Blog started by Shivani Krishan

Dear Wiggly, Jiggly, Juicy Bum | Letters from Men to their body parts | Dear Bum | Notes to the self | Chai High is an Indian Blog started by Shivani Krishan

Dear Voice | Hi Voice | Letters from Men to their body parts | Notes to the self | Chai High is an Indian Blog started by Shivani Krishan

Dear Hands | Letters from Men to their body parts | Notes to the self | Chai High is an Indian Blog started by Shivani Krishan

Dear Brain | Letters from Men to their organs and body parts | Notes to the self | Chai High is an Indian Blog started by Shivani Krishan

Dear Tummy | Letters from Men to their organs and body parts | Notes to the self | Chai High is an Indian Blog started by Shivani Krishan

Dear Shoulders | Letters from Men to their organs and body parts | Notes to the self | Chai High is an Indian Blog started by Shivani Krishan

Dear Overthinking Mind | Letters from Men to their organs and body parts | Notes to the self | Chai High is an Indian Blog started by Shivani Krishan

Dear Butt | Letters from Men to their organs and body parts | Notes to the self | Chai High is an Indian Blog started by Shivani Krishan

Dear Hair | Letters from Men to their organs and body parts | Notes to the self | Chai High is an Indian Blog started by Shivani Krishan

Dear Brain | Hey | Letters from Men to their organs and body parts | Notes to the self | Chai High is an Indian Blog started by Shivani Krishan

Dear Nails | I hate you | Hey | Letters from Men to their organs and body parts | Notes to the self | Chai High is an Indian Blog started by Shivani Krishan

If you made it till here, thank you. Also, if this post inspired you to think about your most prized body part or the most frustrating one – do pen down your thoughts, turn them into letters and mail it to me at schivany@gmail.com. I will do another post soon.

Have a happy weekend. 🙂

Cheers,

Shivani

 

 

 

12 beautifully honest letters written by women to their body parts

I don’t remember what inspired this idea. What I do remember, however, is that it was a regular afternoon at work. And that I was jumping with excitement when the thought struck me.

I remember texting all my friends. I wasn’t sure if they’d be up for it. I remember being delighted when many responded positively – they seemed excited. “Sounds fun” were the words many used.

This was a month ago.

My solo trip followed, and then I got busy with work. I received 3 letters.

Last weekend, I decided to step this up. I sent frantic reminders to my friends – and they (enthusiastically) replied with their letters.

Today, I have 12 beautifully written letters – all of which will make you smile.

As women, we share an important relationship with our bodies. There are parts we love, and parts we grow into loving.

This post is an attempt to help us all make peace with our unique body-types, one body part at a time.

I am sure you will relate to these letters, and if not, at least they will make you laugh out loud.

Happy reading.

Dear Miss Chubby Arms, Why you gotta be so stubborn? Can't you like chill a bit like the other parts of me? The others all listen and react to my workouts, but you just stay there the way you are. Maybe I'm stuck with you forever? Maybe you love me so much you don't want to leave? Oh well.  

Dear Curlies,    I hated you as a kid, well my bad! I hadn't realised then, that standing out is way better than fitting in.    As kids, you can be silly you know. I love you more and more each day. Stay as crazy and badass as ever!    PS: Boobies, I love you equally, but em curls deserved a special mention.    With Love, Maith~

Dear Mr. Long Legs and Mrs. Wigglebutt, Just want you to know that...  Baby if you strip, you can get a tip 'Cause I like you just the way you are I'm about to strip and I'm well equipped Can you handle me the way I are? I don't need the G's or the doubleDs Boys I like you just the way you are Let me see you strip, you can get a tip 'Cause I like, I like, I like.   Stay classy!

 

Dear Right Hand...I love you! Yes I do... and that is because you are the means I get to create beautiful things. You help me make art, you help me feel and understand, and you are who I hold a fork with to eat. My god, will you look at me? I am using you to send you love! That’s how much I need you! I know I know, I sound like a desperate lover but well, you are my favorite (psst...now don’t go telling Ms. Lefthand that!!). All the love and kissis... Mama!Dear TUMMY, I know I feed you daily (most times I am told I am pampering you way too much), I do take care of you but I get this feeling that you don't love me much. Why do you stop me from looking at Mr. Feet? And why do you love gravity so much? Because of you, I spend more time in the trial room and less in the actual store. Hope you reduce your overstuffed ego and help me! Love (yeah, sure!) Your mama!

To my dear eyes,  Hey baby how you doing, you are the best thing happened to me, with you I can explore anything and everything, you both are my apple of my"eyes".muahhh

Dear girlfriends,   I remember when you used to be big, bold & beautiful. Now you'll are delicate and dainty.  But here's what I want to tell you, I loved you then and I love you now.   You make me feel like a woman and I carry you with pride.   With love to my boobies

Dear belly....  How are you, how's life on your side, I am sure you are having a great life ahead. You look like wobbly jelly, I just don't understand what to do with you, you have taken an oath of not reducing a bit. But you know what though I don't like you so much, I am still proud of you. 

Lately, the thing that has been bothering me the most is my arms. It makes countless outfits look entirely awkward.    On the upside, I love my breasts!! They are full, tight and the perfect size! (Not too big and not too small) Well, what more do I want ;)

Dear fat, It's about time we had a conversation about my supposed hatred towards you. Let me clear the air, I don't hate you even though you overstay your welcome often. I don’t want to get rid of you, I want to let you go respectfully as your true self: power; power that helps me stay warm, power that helps me build my muscles, power that helps me get things done when I have not eaten all day! I apologise for all the times I have cursed you in front of my friends and family for you are family first. It took me a while to understand that... Lots of Love

“Dear Saggy-Bottoms While other bottoms are full and round, Why do you two lean towards the ground? When I see models and actresses on the screen, Showing off a behind so clean, I wonder if you’d look so flawless, If I posed on a boat with all my prowess. Well, what do I say, you have left me no choice, For you are all I have to show to the boys, Who’d be caught staring at you without noise, Thus, I guess I should rejoice. After all you are not all that bad, You do have reasons to be kept clad, Even if it means a trip to Victoria’s Secret PINK, I’d do it gladly, without a blink. Xoxo E”

And lastly, the showstopper to this entire piece – do take the time out to read this – it will surely make you laugh.

 

Dear Lower Tummy | Letters from women to their body parts | Chai High is an Indian Blog started by Shivani Krishan | This post attempts to help women make peace with their bodies by starting a conversation with the parts that bother them most

There were many others who were supposed to write in, but got busy. Maybe, I’ll do a round 2.

Till then, let’s work towards beginning a conversation with the body-parts that exasperate us and those that delight us – just like these 12 incredibly strong and self-aware women have done. And let’s not forget to tell our bodies that we love them.


 

My first solo trip – A firsthand account by a self-confessed Shy Girl

For my 28th birthday, I took my first solo trip. Nothing too fancy; a nearby locale, a hostel, and one-way airfare paid with miles. I paid next to nothing to go on this fated “solo trip”. Saying it was full paisa vasool would be an understatement.

There was no four-poster bed, air-conditioned hallway, gilded elevator or picturesque pool. No bathtub filled with bubbles, no breakfast buffet, and definitely no flatscreen TV installed in the room. None of it.

It’s not that I am a fan of ‘simple living’ or anything, I’m no Gandhi. I love humongous breakfast spreads and springy-white mattresses, and ask anyone who has ever lived with me, how anal (bordering on control-freakishness) I am about cleanliness. To the point of clinical, hospital-like starchiness!

So, in addition to travelling solo, the fact that I was choosing to live in a backpackers’ hostel, was also a BIG deal for me.

I reached early – 7:30 in the morning, when the hostel was dead AF. They were partying all night, said the host. I nodded, looking around at the minimal arrangements. “Have I made a mistake?”, I asked myself. The pathways were mucky and slushy after a bout of heavy downpour, and the hostel was barely stirring, its inhabitants passed out.

I took my bags to the assigned dorm. Empty. I was the first and only occupant in the girls’ dorm for the day. Relieved, I dumped my bags, and inspected the loo. Not bad, I thought to myself – an attached bathroom was more than what I’d hoped for.

I settled down for a nap, a hundred thoughts racing through my head. My family was panicking – their daughter was travelling alone, that too to a place that’s been in-the-news-for-all-the-wrong-reasons. My friends were curious. And their incessant calls and messages were, to be honest, making me anxious. I decided to ignore all that, and get some sleep – the anticipation (read the pukey, restless feeling in the gut) had not let me sleep a wink the night before. And having a 5:25 a.m. flight hadn’t helped either.

A short nap later, I woke up, attacked by a severe bout of FOMO – I was on vacation, and here I was, holed up alone in a dark, dorm – I needed to go out and explore.

I walked around the hostel premises, inspecting the immediate surroundings, and then stepped out, retracing my steps through the slushy, mucky pathway that had lead me to the hostel that morning. I found my way to the beach, barely 5 minutes away. An old woman tried to sell me cigarettes. An Indian couple on a scooter asked me for directions. A few passerbys’ stared, curious.

It was a bright sunny day, and the sea didn’t disappoint. A friendly bluish-green, it lapped around playfully, laying at least some of my apprehensions to rest.

I attached myself to the Indian couple, and followed them to the only open shack – they were sweet enough to let me tag along. I found myself a separate table there, and pulled out the Murakami book I was reading, and ordered a beer to go with it. It was beautiful. The yellow sun, the noisy sea, the chilled beer, and the book. I looked at the view, calm and happy. Yes, this was worth it.

That afternoon, on my way back from the beach, appropriately lightheaded, I ran into the now awake fellow hostellers. Being the awkward, shy person that I was, obviously it was they who called out to me, introducing themselves enthusiastically.

After exchanging pleasantries, and discovering that at least 3 of us were from Bombay, different parts though – Bandra, Andheri and Borivli (+ cracking Borivli jokes – obviously), I decided to retreat once again to my room for a leisurely afternoon nap.

I woke up refreshed, showered, and wore a long, gathered skirt and a crop top – suitably boho. I stepped out in search of chai (my favourite) – there was none, and then decided to swap it for beer instead – there was plenty – Bira White even (surprisingly). We sat, talking, drinking, and that evening a bunch of us went to Anand for seafood. Which was so delicious that I came straight back and passed out before the clock struck 12.

So, there was no “bringing in my birthday” – 2 cans of beer, tons of rice and pomfret in coconut gravy had made sure of that.

The next morning was spent answering calls and birthday wishes, explaining to my friends that yes, I was in Goa, and yes, I was alone, and no, I was NOT joking, and yeah, it’s been great – if a little slow. And as I talked with all my friends, once again I began to doubt my decision – was being on my own, surrounded with strangers on my birthday a wise decision? I pondered over it in between calls that morning. Plus being low on cash in a card-agnostic place didn’t help. By afternoon, I was food-deprived (no cash), friend-deprived (most others had taken a cab to the beach), and was chanting to myself “What the hell was I thinking?”

However, as luck would have it, around 5 that evening, I heard a hostel-volunteer mention he was going to the supermarket. Wasn’t that where the ATM was? 

And so, I sat awkwardly behind him on the scooter, sideways, because I was wearing a long straight skirt that did not let me sit normally (I tried), holding onto his backpack with one hand, clutching a handle-like thing below my seat with the other. I had the ATM cards of two other people in my wallet, who also were low on cash – I wasn’t the only unprepared fool.

The scooter spluttered over speed breakers and narrow roads, the sky drizzled tiny raindrops on us, the hills rolled to one side, the green of the trees made more intense with the intermittent rain, pedestrians turned to look at us, other scooters with other people scuttled past us. It was beautiful.

The trip to the ATM was the defining moment of my trip; everything before was shrouded in doubt, and everything after – pure joy.

I got back to the hostel, a spring in my step, a smile on my face – I never knew a few thousands in cash in my wallet could make such a difference. I got myself a Bira and joined the backpackers’ in the common area.

That night we went Salsa dancing – I didn’t dance, the next morning we went out for breakfast and lunch. That evening I went, once again, to the beach. And that late evening, we simply spent sitting in the common area, chatting till the wee hours of the morning.

The conversations I had in those 3 days, if inspected in itself, were nothing groundbreaking, but together they made me feel painfully aware of how large the world is, and yet how small – we all have similar battles, fears, apprehensions, hopes and dreams. We may be from different countries, but we’re connected by NETFLIX (we all watch NARCOS). We could look different, and talk different, and dress different, but we are connected by our love for CHAI and Cheese Garlic Naan. And, there’s nothing quite as fun as getting together and teasing a young couple on the brink of romance – yeah, you heard me – the methods of pulling somebody’s leg remain same across geographies.

I don’t know, how, from doubting my decision, I went on to have such an enlightening experience. Maybe it was because I had spent the first day and a half adapting and understanding what living in a backpackers’ hostel meant. By the time I left, though, I was ready to take another trip solo.

When I left the hostel, it was with a heavy heart. I was consumed by feelings no words can describe. Let’s just say they were different from happy, sad, romantic or nostalgic. It felt like my heart was being squashed and torn and pulled apart from all sides – travelling solo aroused something in me, something akin to a hunger I didn’t know existed. It felt crazy.

And I? I felt alive.


Have any questions on travelling solo? E-mail me at schivany@gmail.com

 

 

 

Chai High curates 4 looks for you.

You don’t always have to match your shoes to your bag, and nobody says you need to choose between sensibilities. The key lies in mixing it up.  Be it in the form of an unexpected pop of Ikat in an otherwise sporty ensemble, or a pair of furry bedroom-inspired slides to lighten up a blazer. Take the boudoir to the streets, the boardroom to the ball, and the mountain to the beach. Let your clothing traverse between geographies, as you wear different parts of the Atlas on your sleeves. This season, nobody’s asking you to be “propah”. In fact, we’re asking you to be the opposite. 

It’s about letting your look be a map of the places you’ve lived in, places you’ve visited, and the places you want to visit.

Hope you enjoy this edit.

Look 1

Look 1 of the 4 looks curated by Shivani Krishan of Chai High - an Indian Fashion Blog, featuring an Ikat top by Iyla, a canvas and leather backpack, a denim skort by Zara and a pair of white embroidered sneakers by Zara.

Look 2

Look 2 of the 4 looks curated by Shivani Krishan of Chai High - an Indian Fashion Blog, featuring a blue frayed crop top by The Pot Plant, a blue pleated skirt by The Pot Plant, a tote by the 500 BC and tan leather thong sandals by Gush, all found on Nete.in

Look 3

Look 3 of the 4 looks curated by Shivani Krishan of Chai High - an Indian Fashion Blog, featuring an anti fit dress, sling bag and slides by Zara, The Pot Plant, Nete.in and Cord

Look 4

Look 4 of the 4 looks curated by Shivani Krishan of Indian Fashion Blog - Chai High. This look features a box blazer by Doodlage, a crop top by Doodlage and Nete, a pair of box pleat skorts and green faux fur bejewelled slides by Zara, and a green satchel by Viari

These looks feature separates from two of my recent favourite places – Zara (who has moved beyond the classic), and Nete.in

While all items from Nete.in can be shopped online, for Zara, you’re going to have to visit the store.

Happy Shopping. 🙂