Tag:OFW

Spicy Auntie has lived in Asia long enough to know that charisma is a dangerous perfume. It smells like wisdom. It looks like serenity. It sounds like certainty. And if you’re not careful, it can intoxicate an entire nation. Every time another “godman” falls in India, people act surprised. Shocked. Betrayed. As if patriarchy wrapped in saffron robes suddenly sprouted claws overnight. My darlings, it didn’t. It always had them. Let me say something unfashionable: the problem is not faith. Faith can be tender, healing, revolutionary. The problem is unchecked...

Ah, kasal. The white gown, the trembling groom, the ninong who secretly hopes his envelope is thick enough to impress the bride’s mother. When I was young (younger), I lived in a Philippines where marriage wasn’t a question — it was a deadline. Graduate, find a stable job, marry before the biological clock starts ticking too loudly. End of script. But my dear readers, the script is being quietly rewritten. I don’t blame young Filipinos for hesitating. In a country without divorce, marriage isn’t just romantic — it’s permanent ink....

Oh, Sri Lanka. My beautiful, complicated, post-crisis, tea-scented island. One minute you are flirting with the global “pink dollar,” the next you are blushing and backing away like a shy debutante who suddenly remembers the neighbors are watching. Let me say this clearly: LGBTQ tourism is not about glitter parades on every beach in Bentota. It is not about turning Sigiriya into a rainbow disco ball. It is about one simple thing — safety and dignity. If two men from Berlin want to hold hands at sunset in Galle, or...

I have spent enough nights in Southeast Asian cities to know that hotel lobbies are theatres of denial. Not hypocrisy — denial. The polite, air-conditioned kind. The kind with a marble counter, a discreet CCTV dome in the corner, and a ledger that records everything while claiming to judge nothing. Let’s talk about guest-friendly hotels. People hear the phrase and imagine decadence, scandal, sin in neon lights. In reality? It’s paperwork. It’s ID cards placed gently on reception desks. It’s a clerk who has seen it all and reacts to...

I remember the first time I bought sanitary pads. I wrapped them in another plastic bag, as if they were contraband. Not drugs. Not alcohol. Cotton and cellulose. But somehow more shameful. And now, decades later, we are still pretending that menstruation is a private embarrassment rather than a public policy issue. So when a young lawyer stands up and challenges the so-called tampon tax, Auntie pays attention. Because this is not just about rupees and receipts. It is about who gets to define what is “essential.” Milk? Essential. Medicine?...