I have always felt bad when people from the North East face racist remarks. But sometimes the issue is not only racism-it is also how people interpret intent through their own mindset. I had posted a video on Instagram from a wedding near my hostel where the song Pardesi Pardesi was playing. For me, it was mesmerizing-being in Assam and hearing such a familiar Hindi song at a Boro wedding felt beautiful. So I made a video saying, “Let me show you a beautiful thing-although many people here may not know Hindi well, still look at this,” and then recorded the music. My intention was to appreciate how music can connect people beyond language. There was no insult in it. But one of my seniors from Assam got triggered and said I was discriminating by commenting on people’s Hindi. That genuinely surprised me, because that was never my meaning. What made me sadder was that later he said, “Most people from UP do crime and lootpaat.” That stayed with me. It made me wonder-is that really the image he carries of people from UP? And how easily do we end up replacing one stereotype with another? That was painful to hear.😅

I was sleeping and suddenly heard a thudd noise outside my balcony 2:50am at night, someone planned to burst crackers. Is this even allowed?? My heartbeat is racing like anything. My whole body is shivering. @DGPAssamPolice @BJP4Assam @CMOfficeAssam

Two of my cousins gave their board exams this year. Yesterday the results came-one scored 80% and the other 93.5%. Now the one with 80% is sad and crying because she couldn’t cross 90. To comfort her, we could say things like “90% isn’t everything,” “marks don’t define you,” or “you’ll still reach the same place.” But here’s the dilemma-saying that might unintentionally hurt the other cousin who worked hard and scored above 90. So what’s the solution? How do you validate one child’s feelings without undermining the other’s achievement?😂 #CBSE #CBSEresults

When I first read Khushwant Singh’s words -“For another they are more forthcoming and more hospitable, with no hangups about caste or class. My vote for the friendliest of Indians goes to the Assamese”- I remember nodding to the page, half‑sceptical, half‑curious. Back then, my own experience of Assam had been shaded by a few bitter encounters, and I found myself questioning whether kindness could really be woven so deeply into the fabric of a place. The first days here felt like standing outside a warm house while it rained. I saw glimpses of generosity, but they were far and scattered, and I had not yet found my corner. Slowly though, as time passed, those early impressions began to soften. I met people whose smiles were not performance, whose “come home again” was not a polite farewell but a genuine invitation. The bitterness I had carried slowly faded, like ink washed away in clean, gentle water. One afternoon, Dada said, “Today, you’re coming home with me.” Not to his house, but to his Khuri’s place. I hesitated. The side of me that loves quiet corners, familiar walls, and solitude balked at the idea of stepping into an unfamiliar home. But something in Dada’s voice, that easy, unspoken warmth of Assamese affection, pulled me along. I agreed, half‑reluctantly, half‑curious, as if life itself had nudged me toward a moment I didn’t know I needed. The moment I entered Maahi’s home, the doubt inside me dissolved. The house was not grand, nor meant to impress. It was simply full -full of light, full of warmth, full of the kind of love that lives in old smiles and well‑used furniture. The air smelled of tea, of something freshly cooked, of care. Dada’s Khuri-my Maahi- greeted me with a smile that reached her eyes, and for the first time since coming here, I felt, without any pretence, like I was being seen as family. When she asked how I was feeling in Assam, the truth slipped out before I could think. “I miss eating roti,” I said, almost shyly. She nodded, listening carefully, then excused herself, saying she would make tea. She walked into the kitchen quietly, as though she were stepping into a place of prayer, and I sat there, feeling a little guilty, as if I had asked for something too much. Then, twenty minutes later, the table was suddenly transformed. There, laid out with quiet care, were hot, golden pooris, a plate of fragrant sabji, and a steaming cup of tea. The simplicity of it was heartbreaking in its kindness. My heart swelled, my eyes almost betrayed, and I realized that this was not just food; this was someone’s way of saying, “You are not alone.” As we prepared to leave, Maahi smiled and said, “Come again sometime.” In that moment, I thought it was just one of those polite, universal goodbyes that people use to wrap up visits. I smiled back, nodded, and stepped out, assuming the words would slip away like countless others. But Maahi meant them. A few days later, Dada showed me a message from her: “Come for dinner.” Not a vague invitation. Not a “when‑you‑are‑free” gesture. A clear, specific call. My heart danced. I realized that in a world where people often say “visit again” but mean nothing by it, someone had actually remembered me. That evening felt like returning to a childhood summer afternoon at my grandparents’ home-the laughter of cousins, the clatter of plates, the sense that here, nothing was expected beyond presence and warmth. There were no awkward silences, no performative questions, no need to impress. We talked like children reunited after a long break, curious and comfortable in each other’s company. The food was abundant, the conversation unguarded. After dinner came dessert-a sweet, labor‑intensive dish that takes at least two hours of continuous stirring. She had made it for us. And when I said we should go, she didn’t just wave from the doorway. She packed food for me, saying, “Eat this in the morning, betu.” (Continued)

Detachment >>>>begging people to act right!!!!!