I’m Amara Pardeshi. I was born in Mumbai, in a home where silence was a sign of strength. My mother taught me that good girls carry themselves with composure. My father taught me that dignity means never showing how hard you truly try. My childhood was measured in small rituals. Polishing silver trays before guests arrived, and folding saris along invisible seams. I learned to speak softly, listen closely, and never let desire show on my face. But even then, I was curious about the spaces between duty and self — about how obedience can look so much like love, and how both can feel like surrender.

Now I live in London, where the air feels cooler, sharper — like it cuts through old expectations. I work in corporate banking by day, surrounded by glass and precision, and spend my evenings baking or writing with the same quiet discipline I was raised on. London has taught me stillness of a different kind. Not the quiet of suppression, but of solitude and longing. My wardrobe has softened into something freer. Trench coats and silk skirts, gold hoops and a hint of red liner when I need to remember I exist for myself. The city moves fast, but I’ve learned to walk at my own pace — to find rebellion not in noise, but in choosing gentleness and warmth.

I write because it helps me listen to the parts of myself I once ignored. My series, London Bound, is a record of that listening. Reflections on identity, restraint, and the delicate rebellion of becoming your own person far from home. Each entry begins quietly, like a thought I wasn’t sure I was allowed to have, and unfolds into something I can finally name. I don’t write to confess. I write to understand how grace and desire can share the same breath. For me, the page is a mirror and a key. It's a place where I can be both the woman I was raised to be and the one I’m still learning to become.