Who am I really?

How do you learn to love and accept your biculturalism when you don’t feel like you fit into either culture because you aren’t Australian enough or Indian enough?

I feel like I struggle with the concept of cultural identity. A lot.

There are quite a few instances in my life where I’ve felt neither Australian nor Indian.

My parents were born in India, but shortly after marriage, they moved to New Zealand where my sister was born, and then moved again to Australia where I was born.

I was born in Sydney and have lived here all my life. We used to live in an apartment which I have no recollection of because apparently I spent my first birthday with my closest family, while being surrounded by a sea of moving boxes asΒ we had just moved into our new house. My pre-school was close to our local train station and my dad would drop me every morning before going to work. We had a secret handshake that we would do at the door. I was a complete princess in my style. I never wore jeans or pants. Even in winter, my mum would have ready a cute dress, stockings, boots, a coat, little mittens and the appropriate coloured hair ties and ribbons to adorn the two braids I diligently wore every single day.

I didn’t see myself as any different to the other children I was around. At the age of three, I was the exact same as the other 14 boys and girls in my class.

I guess that all changed in primary school.

I consider myself an Australian. I’m an Australian citizen. English is my first language. I uphold our Australian values and sing the Australian National Anthem with pride. I have a solid Australian accent and love this beautiful country I’m so blessed to be in. I love the chill lifestyle we have. I love being able to go to the beach when I please, have a barbecue with friends and just chill out. I honour the traditional custodians of our land. I also know first hand the experience of an Australian summer where the first thing you experience in the car is the branding ceremony caused by your seatbelt.

But I also have an Indian heritage. I have olive toned skin. I have curly black hair and dark round eyes with long curly lashes. I can’t speak Hindi very well but I can fully understand it. I take part in every cultural and Hindu festival that comes about every year. I love being able to dress in Indian formal wear and once upon a time, I was classically trained in Bharatanatyam. There’s a special place in my heart for Bollywood movies and Indian film stars. And I will never give up the myriad of Indian dishes I’m blessed to be able to eat, cook and relish.

But I’ve never truly felt Australian. Nor have I truly felt Indian.


The above article really struck a nerve with me when I realised how similar our experiences growing up were.

Let’s start with primary school.

I was 7 years old and was encountering my first experience of bullying. At 7 years old, I was average height, skinny and had hair on my arms and legs. My olive toned skin is pretty light by Indian standards so the black hair stood out. The girls I thought were my friends blatantly came up to me and said, “You’re so unclean. Your skin is brown and hairy. That’s disgusting”. At age 7, I didn’t know what to think. I was made fun of for having a non typically “white” name that people couldn’t pronounce. I was told to go back to my own country even though I was born and brought up here in Sydney.

But we were children and I let it go. I found new friends that stuck with me and I was happy.

Then I changed schools as part of the opportunity class placement program targeted at students in year 5 and 6. I was 10 years old and three white girls cornered me in a bathroom and told me to go back to my own country because brown people didn’t belong here in Australia. I was told that I was abnormal and disgusting because I had hair on my arms and legs. Never before had I been so conscious of myself. I hated the fact that I had to wear shorts during sport. While I was an avid AFL/touch footy player, I loved dance and thoroughly enjoyed athletics, I remember staring at myself in the mirror while in my sports shorts and tshirt, and hating the fact that my fair skin was covered in this hideous layer of hair. I remember thinking, ‘I’m not Australian. I don’t belong here. I have to change myself because Australians don’t look like this.’

I remember coming home and finding a razor, running it down my arms and then staring in satisfaction at the clean skin. I later broke into a rash and after telling my mum why I did it, I demanded that I get waxed.

The first time I got my arms and legs waxed was when I was 11. My parents didn’t want me to, but obviously my stubbornness won out. I nearly slapped the beautician and cried because it hurt so much. But the end result was so satisfying. I was clean. I could finally look Australian.

But at 11, I wasn’t personally troubled by the fact that I share two cultures. I was proud of it. I possessed traits, values and mannerisms from both cultures. I could switch between being an Indian and being an Australian as I pleased. What I didn’t like was being made fun of for having parathas stuffed with spicy vegetables for lunch sometimes. What I hated was being asked why my hands were cut by a crowd of caucasian children when I came to school with henna on. And when I explained that it was a typically south east Asian tradition done during auspicious times, I was called “fking weird because here in Australia, it doesn’t work like that”. I remember being called weird when people saw a photo of me with a bindi on my forehead because I was in a sari for a performance because it was creepy to have something colourful stuck in the middle of my forehead.

And then in my first month of high school when I was still 11 and thought I was over hearing shit about myself, I remember being in tears as I got home because one caucasian private school boy had blatantly pointed the facial hair above my lip out to his group of friends as I walked by.

The next week, I experienced threading my upper lip and while it hurt, I was satisfied. I looked less abnormal and more Australian.

Even now, I am paranoid that people will see the missed patch of hair that I forgot to shave off in a rush. I am paranoid of stepping out of the house if my upper lip threading appointment is later then I wanted.

But at age 11, I learnt what it was like to hate my skin. To hate the fact that I was brown and had hair in places I shouldn’t. I learnt the feeling of not feeling confident that I could possess two cultures and still be an Australian. I learnt what it was like to be disillusioned from society because I wasn’t pretty enough for the Australian boys. I learnt about the fear of missing an eye brow threading because my thick, luscious and dark eyebrows aren’t normal even though my mum always told me that people craved having thick eyebrows that didn’t need to be filled in.

Even now, I’m still conflicted about going out to the beach and wearing a bikini because of the hair on my back. I’m terrified of getting into a relationship and being able to move forward because what if my boyfriend sees me with the hair on my upper lip?

High school was pretty much the opposite. I went to an all girls selective school. My grade was primarily Asian and I felt like I fit in for once. There was no bullshit about bringing food that wasn’t a sausage roll or a sandwich. Between the east asians and few south east asians, we shared the woes of waxing and hair removal. It was great. I felt so at home in school. Everyone loved the fact that most of our grade were fluid between two cultures. It was a matter of pride that we were all comfortable with the fact that we could speak both English and our parents’ mother tongues. And together we shot down racist assholes by proving that people who were “yellow” or “brown” were no different to the typical caucasian Australian. I found the ability to move between my two cultures. I was able to give it my all on stage as I led dancers during our annual charities day to the best bollywood songs; but also do typically Australian things like play a ton of sport, do intense amounts of charity and be involved in this great work-life balance I had created.

I learnt to give myself a voice, calling out the bigots who had mocked me when I was younger for having henna and wearing a bindi when they themselves did it to look freaking boho at a music festival. I became proud of my identity. The fact that it was freaking epic that I was both Indian and Australian. That I had the best of both worlds.

I thought I was over everything that primary school had thrown at me. Done with the bullshit and I was slowly learning to see myself as this bomb AF young Australian with an Indian heritage.

Until I realised that I don’t really belong as an Indian.

This came about after a few trips to India.

Indian society has this stigma about beauty. Fair skin. Hairless skin. Mole free skin.

I don’t feel comfortable in my own skin in India. Because my moles and pimples are always pointed out to me. It’s like the older generations of my family have nothing better to say to me. They will always point out the pimple I have or the mole above my eyebrow or the fact that I’ve gotten too dark.

These comments were the reason I started concealing the three moles on my face because I thought they diminished the apparent beauty I possessed.

And then there’s the language barrier and the fact that since I’m Australian, I’m apparently not as intelligent as my Indian cousins. I can speak Hindi and I understand it perfectly. I sometimes choose not to speak Hindi because I weird myself out with the fact that there is a strong Australian accent served with my “Namaste Nani, aap kehse ho? (Hey grandma, how are you?)”. To this, people in India make it a fact to make me feel bad about it. Aunties and Uncles and friends of the family and other people will comment condescendingly that I don’t even know Hindi and it’s shameful. Or when I attempt to speak, they laugh or pretend they don’t understand me because of the accent difference. That’s real freaking comforting isn’t it.

And then there’s education. Education is important. But living in Australia I think has given my parents a new perspective. While education and doing well is really important to my parents and to me, my parents always told me to make informed decisions and do the best I can. But in India? My HSC mark wasn’t good enough because it wasn’t a perfect 99.95. My marks are never as good as my cousins’ marks because apparently being in Sydney makes the education easier so I should do better.

It’s really comforting when you’re told you aren’t Indian enough and that the slackness of western lifestyle is imbibing your lifestyle.

And then there is the body consciousness and food issue. I struggle with body positivity. I’m self conscious and am rarely happy with myself. So hearing comments about the fact that I’m not skinny enough isn’t cool. And then on the flip side, people will not stop feeding me and get pissed when I say no to extra servings. I understand the Indian mentality of being an overzealous host sometimes, but please re-evaluate the fact that first you insult and then you get insulted when I don’t eat sweets.

It’s like I’m not good enough to be Indian. My Hindi is shit. I can’t read or write it. My skin isn’t fair enough and I’m not skinny enough for Indian standards. I’m opinionated and outspoken and I’m apparently too wild because I live in Australia. I don’t watch all the Bollywood movies and have no interest in living in India. I think the caste system is an outdated, illogical system and will always rise to question the corruption in India. I have no interest in cricket and would rather play rugby with my mates, both boys and girls, then sit inside and be asked if I’m dating and be consistently warned that bringing home a boy who isn’t an Indian will mean I should not bother coming home anymore. *The last few statements are directed at my extended family and other indians. My parents do not share this view at all. My parents are the best* I don’t want to get married after a shit experience with heartbreak and apparently saying that out loud in front of my extended family was the wrong thing to do.

So what now? I’m a 17 year old girl who doesn’t seem to fit anywhere. There will always be someone questioning ‘but where were you REALLY born?’ as if me giving the name of the hospital that I was born in here in Sydney isnt enough. I will always be told that I’m not Indian enough because apparently my independence and the fact that I will not hesitate to belt out Justin Timberlake’s Sexy Back, cusses and all makes me some wild, off the track, hopeless case.

How do you learn to love and accept your biculturalism when you don’t feel like you fit into either culture because you aren’t Australian enough or Indian enough?

xx Simran



I feel like half my generation needs to go on a cleanse because y’all are hot messes. My snap stories are polluted with videos and images of people ruining their livers and lungs day after day. Yeh, being fresh into uni is the time to party. Hell I love a good party (when it’s with good company though) but seriously, do you not have any concern for your lungs and livers? They’re gonna carry you til we’re 100 because let’s be real, the age of death is steadily rising.

I feel like every time I look at people I know “living it up”, I feel like I need to shower and go on a juice cleanse because their actions pollute my social media and therefore, they pollute me. No I don’t need to see your squad getting wrecked. That isn’t squad goals honey. And please, there is an art to looking hot AF with all your goods tucked away.

Generation Z needs to reevaluate. Seriously. Sometimes I wonder if I was born in the wrong generation because while I’m impulsive and love having fun or hanging with my mates, I like to do it in a way where I’m not damaging myself. And anyway, didn’t people learn that alcohol, like chocolate or other nice things should be enjoyed like a treat so you actually savour the taste of what you’re drinking?


xx Simran

Food for thought?Β 

After spending so long away from mangoes, chia seeds, oats and flax seed; I decided to get back into the low GI, low carb breakfasts I indulge in all the time. 

I kept it simple this morning with a coconut and chia Bircher muesli with almonds, flax seed and pumpkin seed; which was then topped with organic leatherwood honey from Tasmania, banana and honey-gold mangoes. 

Heaven does exist. Well now it’s in my tummy πŸ’ͺ🏼 


Getting back into the fast pace of life while you’re jet lagged is tough. But uni has started and I’m keen (: but truthfully, I am sort of nervous about uni. I’m nervous about the whole “you’re on your own” after having teachers look out for students for 13 years. But that being said, I’m ready for a new chapter in my life and I’m excited about the prospects uni will bring with it. 

xx Simran 


Stop trying to glorify and make anxiety/low self esteem a cute or desirable attribute to you who are. Because when you experience a panic attack or go through the mental marathon of trying to overcome your esteem issues, you wish that no one ever have to deal with such a mentally and emotionally taxing experience. 

Faking anxiety doesn’t do anything to make you more deserving of attention. Pretending you have low self esteem isn’t something you do to have more people fawn over you. 

Experiencing anxiety that induces a panic attack where your only outlet is to cry or hyperventilate no matter where you are and who you’re with is a harrowing experience. Not being comfortable in your own skin is one of the toughest things to deal with. Why people want to pretend they’re dealing with something no one should deal with, I have no idea. 

Just. Stop. Please. 

xx Simran 

25 years

25 years. 300 months. It’s a long time for anything. A long time in life, well at least from my still innocent(ish) 17 year old perspective. It’s a long time in every shape and form.

It’s definitely a long time for commitment. It’s a timeline that keeps going. A period where love and emotion and mutual experience keep on growing and influencing the ways in which people lead their lives. Together.

I’m writing this post about 6 hours early because I won’t have time tomorrow in all the celebration and chaos of ensuring my parents have the best 25th anniversary, but we’re all also ready to fly out back to Sydney the next day at 6 am.

They say love gives you a sense of euphoria. It’s like nothing one ever experiences. They say finding love in someone completes us. I’m sceptical to fate but the age old story that humans were created in halves so they would spend their lives finding their soulmates has always stuck with me. A romantic at heart, no matter how guarded and distrusting I am of other people; my parents have always shown me that true love does exist. The impenetrable bond between two people that grows stronger with each passing minute does exist

And I’ve never doubted for a minute that my parents share a love so pure. A love that keeps on growing between themselves, between our family. My parents have always shown me, my sister, our family a sense of pride, union, trust and loyalty to everything they do. Their relationship has become a role model for something I want for myself. Watching my parents share this beautiful relationship for 25 years has proven to me that honest love does exist, and that I want a relationship built on the foundations of trust, loyalty, humour and an unstoppable sense of love for each other that my parents show to me every single day.

My parents are my heroes.

All children say that. But looking back on how I’ve grown up, I couldn’t ask for a more wonderful pair of parents. My parents have shown me the meaning of devotion to people, work and life. My parents have shown me the most wonderful experiences in life through all the family vacations abroad, in Australia, and around Sydney. My parents have provided me with luxuries and a lifestyle I’m so thankful for. My parents have defined the meaning of loyalty, honesty and dedication for me.

And each day, I wake up and thank God for giving me such wonderful parents.

In my parents, I see a relationship that is so balanced. I see how people commit and co-operate with each other. I see how people transform strengths into weaknesses. I see how two people complete each other. Where my dad is soft at heart, my mum carries on strong. Where my mum shows weakness (not that I ever witness it because my mum is a soldier), my dad comes from behind as a shield. Where my dad always forgets one of the six pairs of reading glasses he owns, my mum is always there, instructing him on where his last pair were seen. And of course, where my mum says she’s feeling like ice cream, my dad is always there with a carton, two spoons and a new movie, TV show or documentary to enjoy along side the sweet treat.

I am so blessed to have such wonderful parents. And I see it in myself. I see my parents in my own qualities because my parents are the backbone of who I am and what I’ve made myself. My parents have raised me well. I know that. And now, I see both my parents’ dedication, work ethic and focus in myself. I see my dad’s sense of humour in myself. I see my mum’s passion for cooking in myself. I see my parents’ shared desire to make the world a better place in myself. I see my parents’ shared belief in speaking up for yourself in myself. I see how being around a relationship like the one my mum and dad share has made me the best person I can be.

Seeing such a strong, unbreakable relationship has taught me a lot. And now, as I reach 18 and maybe start to ponder if I want a relationship, I know that I have the best possible guide to love. My parents have shown me what commitment, co-operation, loyalty, humour, faithfulness and love are. And it’s everything I could ever want with my own special someone.

So mum, dad, congratulations on 25 years of marriage. I know that when we head back to Sydney, my sister and I have major celebratory plans. I hope you both enjoy the gifts you have for each other (I know you both will because I’m on the inside as usual). I hope your 25th anniversary is an especially special day for you both. I can’t stress how blessed I am to see such a balanced and pure relationship in front of my eyes everyday. I really am the luckiest daughter in the world.

And as a bit of parting advice from your loving daughter, who has patiently reminded dad to ensure he has his “phone, wallet, fountain pen, car and office keys, office bag and lunch” every morning before he leaves; and also diligently searched the house for mum’s missing glasses every morning before she leaves for work, or for the stray bangle needed to complete the set for the sari mum’s wearing; Dad, remember mum is always right. Mum, dad will never remember to turn the bathroom light off so you may as well accept it. You both need to accept that my sister and I are the most wonderful daughters you could ever have. And also, please never stop laughing, joking and making life enjoyable and memorable for yourselves, for us and for the world.

I love you both so much.

xx Simran


Things I am good at: 

– investing too much time in fictional characters and make believe realities 

– pushing people away and generally having no trust with people I’m not 100% close to/have all my faith in 

– having anxiety in the worst places possible around people who don’t understand that panic and thoughts that induce panic are not something that you can just throw out the window 

– being self conscious AF 

– needing space and time to myself 

– being snarky when people push me around 

– being fiercely loyal towards the people I love and those who love me 

This is such a 360 from my last post. 

I feel like coming to Delhi turns me into this sarcastic, irritable bitchy teenager that I’m really not. Ok jokes I am sarcastic at times but I hate this consistent irritable, bitchiness that seems to always bubbles up when I arrive in Delhi. 

Maybe it’s the pollution and the general chaos. Maybe it’s the lifestyle. I don’t know. 

In Sydney, I live a pretty independent life. I do what I want, when I want. I make my own decisions (nothing too major yet like banking and life choices etc). I know what I want, when I want. I can drive, cook and take care of myself (until I get the flu. I really don’t care that in 3 months, I’ll be a legal adult. Every time I’m sick, I will turn into this toddler who requires her mum and dad). My parents also give me the liberty of learning to do things on my own. 

I’m also not stupid. If it is cold, I dress appropriately. I eat as much as I need. Never more because that screws me up. Years of dealing with food intolerance and a sensitive digestive tract make me so careful with my food. 

So what really bites me here in India, is that no one has any chill. I need my space and I will do as I require. If I’m warm and it’s 25 degrees outside (Delhi calls this winter. I call this summer), I am not going to boil in a coat. I understand that certain people are old and they do feel cold. But I am at my wits end. I can’t say no and be left alone. If I say no to wearing a coat in Delhi, shit breaks loose. It’s frustrating when I get treated like a baby. I’m not stupid. If I’m cold, I’ll wear something. But it is so warm here in Delhi and I’m about to lose it if one more person tells me just how cold it is, and that my tshirt and jeans are no where appropriate for this winter. Yeh sure. I’ll wear a coat when it’s 12 degrees. 

I just wish people would respect that I know how to take care of myself. I am not a baby and I csn handle myself. And this sort of stuff really breaks me, because I get annoyed and aggravated really easily. And as much as I try to contain it around people, when I am consistently nagged about the same bloody issue, I may let my temper flare. I hate getting angry at people. But sometimes it happens and I feel like complete shit after. 

I just can’t catch a break. 

Another thing is that I need space. I get that we come all this way to be with our family, but by nature, I’ve always needed time to myself to just sit, write, listen to some Sam smith or Zayn or Sam Tsui or Justin Timberlake or BeyoncΓ© so I can meditate in my own way; and just collect myself. I taught myself to find stress relief outlets throughout year 12 after the anxiety built up and I broke down at a train station before my exam, and then again when I worked myself up believing I wasn’t good enough because my performance had been sub par to my standards in an assessment. And those were only two instances throughout 2015. 

I need space. I need time to think for myself and sometimes remind myself that I am not what the negativity portrays me to be. I have my days when I’m negative AF and those days, I need just my sister or my best friends, or maybe no one. 

Coming to Delhi has been a struggle for that. I barely have time to catch my breath here. Hearing comments about the fact that I could do with some more weight loss weren’t easy to swallow. Delhi has made me so anxious and unsure of myself. I feel like people are always watching me. I can’t catch a break and I just need a day where no family bothers me. No one tells me to stop listening to music. No one tells me off that music isn’t meditation and that I should be sitting in the temple (another issue on that note). I need peace and I haven’t found it and now, I crave Sydney even more than ever. I also can’t tell people off when they say shit to me can I? Apparently I’m just meant to deal with it. I also can’t share my feelings when there are so many people here. I just need the serenity of my house in Sydney. Where I can talk to my parents freely and not have to worry about anyone else. And their dumb comments. 

Self improvement is my own battle. I don’t need to hear shit from anyone. And the fact that no one will respect that really makes me mad. 

But let’s jump to the last issue. I’m a Hindu. I pray. I try to immerse myself in my religion. I’m a good person and love the fact that my heritage has allowed me to be part of such a wonderful religious community. 

But I’m not a devout Hindu. I know the rituals and prayers. But I don’t pray twice a day, everyday. For me, God and the temple in our house is a place of comfort and serenity when I feel like I can’t find peace within myself. I have my own way of displaying my belief in Hinduism. So when people tell me I’m not praying correctly, or that I don’t have enough faith or that I’m not a good Hindu, I feel like breaking something. Religion isn’t meant to be ritualised so you forget why you’re a Hindu or a Christian or a Buddhist and get caught up in all the useless crap like how many times you have to rotate the diya or how many times you should repeat the Hanuman Chalisa. 

Don’t make me resent my faith. I value myself as a Hindu because religion is something I look to when I feel aimless or lost or scared and I can’t tell anyone. I pray because I want to, not because I have to. Don’t make me hate what I’ve taught myself. I may not be religiously versed, but I believe in God to the extent that I want and I’m happy. 

There is no procedure for religion so stop telling me what the bloody hell to do. I believe because I want to. Religion isn’t the be all and end all. It isn’t the only thing that produces miracles do stop trying to force your views on me. 

I really can’t catch a break it seems. 

I want Sydney now. I miss you so much. 

Let’s hope no more rants happen before I reach home on Saturday. 

xx Simran 


Today has been such a blessing. I’m exhausted AF due to the manic car ride that Delhi seems to always have. 7 hours for a 100km ride is bloody ridiculous. I’m exhausted but I had to blog before I pass out. 

But traffic woes aside, I am so blessed to have my great grandma still here with us. Today enabled me to travel to my grandma’s childhood home to see my great grandma and spend time with her. It isn’t the first time I’ve met my great grandma, but the last time I did, I was two years old. So before today, I have had no recollection of my great grandma or the place in which my maternal grandma spent her childhood. 

My great grandma is an incredible little lady. A woman who has done so much for all my extended family. A woman who raised my grandma so well, where her virtues, culture and value have travelled to both my sister and I through my mother. I have so much respect and love for my great grandma, and being able to spend the day with her has brought me so, so, so much joy. And no doubt, it brought joy to my great grandma as well. 

xx Simran 

Just #TGIT things πŸ˜‚

Raise your hand if you have been personally conflicted and victimised by Shonda Rhimes πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚

Ok no I’m just joking. I love Shonda. Her work is incredible and I’m addicted to scandal and how to get away with murder. The addiction is so bad that I have noted the return of TGIT in my diary, and viewing parties have been organised even though I’m in India and my mates are in Sydney. 

We all know that tomorrow, after I watch how to get away with murder, I’m going to be a hot mess. I’ll probably blog about the start of season 2B and need some form of mental consolation because I will not be able to deal. I won’t be able to deal with Connor (Bae), with ollie (Bae) Frank (favourite shade master), and of course Wes, who I really wouldn’t mind killing off. As much as I adore Alfie Enoch, Wes needs to leave before I lose my mind. 

Also, after consultation from my best friend and fellow shondaland addict, I feel like Pete Nowalk should listen to the fans and let us write a script and a coliver spinoff where everything is nice and pretty and Connor isn’t f-ed up because of Wes. Wes is the root cause of everything wrong with Connor ffs. God damn wes. Wes = Sam’s death. Wes = Annalise basically dying. Wes = my least favourite character. Wes needs to go goddamn. Can Frank please lose his chill, kill Wes and add another character to his list, and probably change the fact that he only kills/kidnaps girls πŸ˜‚

Just ugh. I’m so invested in a TV show. I feel like I should add being invested in fictional plots to my resumΓ© because I’m a bloody champion at it. 

Just to update, God bless Pete for telling htgawm fans that ollie’s gonna be in every episode of season 2B. I’m so excited for Connor’s character development with Oliver and just in general seeing coliver :’) but knowing Pete and Shonda and htgawm, we will definitely not be getting cute ass coliver scenes where they have a perfect relationship all the time ugh 😭 I love how I say that I’m ready for TGIT to return but I’m really not. I am not ready at all for the craziness to return. 

Also, on the note of personal victimisation due to celebrities ruining our fangirling lives, let’s talk about Jack Falahee and his cheekbones and jawline. 

I am offended by the fact that Jack just has to flash his trademark adorable sexy smirk/smile and BAM cheekbones for days. And me? I spend hundreds of dollars at Mecca cosmetics (my weakness) on contour kits, and then spend an hour sculpting my face with make up so the baby fat on my cheeks transforms to look like my face has dimension. Struggles are real. 

Also, that jawline gives me heart pain because it’s so beautiful. I like my men clean shaven usually (God bless Matt Bomer and his fashion/suit style) but holy shit Jack Falahee has the nicest jawline. That scruff, good god. So much perfection :’) 

I am so trash for my favourite celebrities and TV shows. God help my soul. I feel like this is such a generation Z thing. Getting invested in our favourite shows and loving celebrities we’ll probably never meet (just Sydney things right) 

xx Simran 


*rant stress post ahead* 

I feel like there should be a warning attached to my back. I’m a firey 17 year old Australian who is not afraid to slap a bitch when they mess with me, my loved ones, and/or the people who are priceless to me. 

Not being able to be beside my best friend when they’re going through something no one should experience in love is ruining me. 

Stupid distance between Sydney and india. Stupid time zones. Stupid everything. 

I would do anything to bring them down under. Have them live in Sydney with me. But yeh no that isn’t how society freaking works and now I feel shit and I know they feel shit and ugh. 

I understand exactly what they’re going through because I went through the same thing in 2015. 

Real freaking joyful, having love torn apart in your face isn’t it. 

I just can’t deal with things right now. I would do anything to be with them right now. The worst thing is that I never got the chance to tell them what happened in 2015 and now I wish I had. Just ugh. I would turn back time so I could chill with them and tell them everything I was terrified to say out loud. 

Real wonderful. 


This is such a mopey, non regular post. I’m so sorry for the angst. I just need a place to rant and Sydney is asleep right now so all my best friends are out of the question. 

xx Simran 


In my 17 years, I’ve done a lot of cool things. I’ve abseiled, rock climbed, kayaked across major rivers, hiked and Trekker through the most serene and wondrous places. The list goes on. But being here in India has opened up new adventures. Including driving a tractor, going on rides through family land, learning to ride the sickest motorbike I’ve seen (apart from a Harley of course) and going 160 km on a motorbike with my favourite cousin on an empty highway. 

I looked way too devilish behind this bad boy so I had to change my face. I looked like a solid devil. Oops πŸ˜‚πŸ˜ when in India as they say.. 


Fellas, get in line. This classy, sophisticated young lady is now learning to ride a motorbike. 

I like feeding my addiction for cars and bikes. In fact, I have a dream list of vehicles I would like to own: vintage, rover/4WD, sports, everyday, and of course my Harley. One day 

I’m way too excited for this. It was possibly the greatest experience of my life though. Adventure wise.  Being on a motorbike was so liberating. As soon as I get my full drivers license, I’m getting a motorbike license. Hitting the roads in all leather and style. Motorbikes are sexy AF. I love my cars. I love my bikes. And I want a Harley. 
My cousin, my best friend, ons of my favourite people in the entire world. He has the nicest bike. Goddamn. And yes, while my dream is to own a beautiful Harley, his bike was utter perfection. 

Nothing will replace the feeling of being on a motorbike as we cut the roads, riding without any inhibitions. 

Also, nothing will replace the feeling of being hollered at by some sleazy assholes while I sit behind my cousin and ride the afternoon away on an epic bike. I’m not going to apologise for how good I looked in leather. Damn. Not cool India.

xx Simran