Priyanka Panwar

I’ve recently come to terms with an idiosyncrasy that I’ve discovered is quite in vogue. I seem to share the boat with countless others who have caught this habit, one way or the other. However, the intimacy of shared experiences has reduced the guilt to some extent. I plead guilty to mindlessly scrolling through Instagram reels, featuring tempting food.

You wake up one morning and realise that you have been magically transported to the quaint hills where all the popular writers reside. You ae reminded of the Ruskin Bond-esque narratives where the characters witness upside-down ghosts during long, solitary walks in the hillside. You read poetry while it snows outside, sip piping-hot ginger tea and breathe in the refreshing aroma as the mist slowly rises.