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femefetalelevelingup · 20 days

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I love that theres more types of femeninity channels and lessons to learn along with leveling up while doing things we absolutley love . Theres alot we can from diffrent races femeninity content from

Top recs

Manifestelle

Lisa Glamour

Exoticals United

Ms Shera(sprinkle sprinkle)

_Chloe

The Femenine universe

Urania

If you have any favorite femeninity channels you watch you can comment id love to try them too :)

#femininity #leveling up #level up #luxury #hypergamy #asian luxury #asian woman in luxury #high maintenance #fashion #high value woman

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svetlanabeilschmidtannon · 7 months

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Anyone who throws shade at me . Honestly im not even scared anymore cause haters are just people who

Want to be me but cant

Be with me yet i dont give free passes

Who just waste my time

To thoes im happily freinds and close too All of you are amazing people and the best 🥰

#You wont see me eat 10x times #i said what i said #haters be gone #anti obesity #asian women in femininity #asian woman in luxury

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sortagolddigger · 1 month

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Girl all these videos of dusties attacking black women are starting to make me want to go on a full campaign that black women should only associate with a certain kind of man

Y'all need to make dusties suffer with loneliness. They are way too comfortable attacking us in front of the world!

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unholydelights · 1 year

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I Am🐚

I am beautiful. I am talented. I am so skilled. I am divine. I am incredibly insightful. I am divine timing. I am wealthy. I am blessed. I am grace. I am poise. I am the morning & the evening star. I am the voyager and the wayfarer. I am the light and the darkness. I am luxury. I am leisure. I am rest. I am ease. I am success. I am power. I am mother. I am daughter. I am lust. I am rage. I am wrath. I am always right. I am never late. I am the beginning and the end.

#self love #affirmations #hypergamous lifestyle #feminine journey #level up journey #je suis la femme #kept woman #spoiled wife #high maintenance #hypergamyblr #asian women in luxury #pasifika women in luxury #indigenous women in luxury

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laufeyslegacy · 5 months

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What To Expect From Here!

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

What To Expect For This Account:

Stories with:

AMBW lovers (Asian Man Black Woman)

WMBW lovers (White Man Black Woman)

BMBW lovers (Black Man Black Woman)

Also:

Scenarios About My Crush + Background Story About Him

Sexual Tension one-shots!!

Allow Anime Characters/ Kpop Idols etc to be shipped with black woman

The female lead will always be a black/brown/mixed woman so requests for any other skin colour for FL will not be accepted

Any other character excluding the ML (like the best friend) can have any skin colour you want if requested

Requests Are Open!

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

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captinryker · 1 year

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self care sunday🍦🎧🛁

what to do on this glorious reset day:

✩Wash your hair, do a deep condition

✩Do a body scrub, make sure to moisten

✩Follow a stretching tutorial

✩Do a weekly budget plan

#black girls who blog #black women in femininity #asian chick #asian models #asian women in femininity #asian women in luxury #hispanic women #hispanic men in luxury #hispanic women in feminity #high value woman #moodboard #white moodboard #self care #self care day

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fisheshavegill · 2 months

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--- Crazy Rich Asians.

「 ✦ CRA ✦ 」

sunghoon fanfic! fem reader!

" its not my job to make you feel like a man, i can't make you something you're not "

word count : 2.1k

no proof read

──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

The Park Family was widely known for their lavish lifestyle, grandeur mansions, and a fleet of luxury cars that would make anyone envious. They were considered to be one of the most prestigious families in the entire country. However, despite their perfect appearance, some rumors were circulating about their family that were quite controversial. Despite the neatly ironed curtains and immaculate gardens that surrounded their mansions, there were whispers of deceit, betrayal, and scandal that lurked behind their opulent lifestyle. What was going on behind closed doors was anyone's guess, but it was clear that there was more to the Park Family than met the eye.

CURRENT TIME

Screaming and then proceeded to throw a flower vase.

After a few moments of throwing various items on the floor in a fit of frustration, you began to feel winded and paused to catch your breath.

You stood there, panting heavily, noticing movement out of the corner of your eye and turned to see two of the maids peering at you through the small gap in the partially closed door.

Their eyes widened in surprise as you locked gazes with them.

The fear in their faces as they realized they had been caught spying on you. Without a word, they quickly turned and scurried away, leaving you alone in the now-quiet room.

As they stormed out of the room, you slammed the door shut with a loud bang. The only witnesses to this scene were the maids, who stood their peering to you earlier, unsure of what to do or say.

The maids were now busy working downstairs, cleaning and cooking the kitchen for their owner’s lunch. As they worked, they engaged in a conversation about their owner’s wife, Mrs. Park. One of the maids curiously asked, "What's been happening with Mrs. Park lately?" The other maid, who was chopping some fresh carrots, replied, "I heard a rumor that she saw a leaked photo of Mr. Park sleeping with another woman while he was on a business trip."

The head maid overheard their conversation while she was inspecting the house and immediately intervened. She scolded the maids and reminded them of their duties. She warned them that their laziness and idle talk could cost them their jobs. She was a strict disciplinarian and expected her staff to uphold the highest standards of professionalism.

The two maids quickly returned to their duties, one mopping the kitchen floor while the other continued to chop the vegetables. The head maid kept a watchful eye on her staff, ensuring that they performed their duties to the best of their abilities.

The head maid, is an elderly woman who has been with the Park family for decades. She started working for them when Mr. Park Sunghoon was just a baby and has since then become a trusted and loyal member of the family. With her extensive experience, she has become an invaluable asset to the household, where she oversees the smooth running of the daily activities.

However, due to some reason, Mr. Park Sunghoon had requested that the head maid be transferred to his house. It is not clear what prompted this request, but it is believed that he wanted her to oversee the daily running of his house and his ‘wife’. Despite the move, the head maid continues to be a highly respected and valued member of the Park family.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

SUNGHOON’S POV

Seated at a long glass table with his employees, he listened as they discussed their company's upcoming plans. However, he couldn't help feeling bored as the conversation revolved around collaborating with other brands, something he strongly despises.

His tired eyes drifted towards the window where he gazed at the bustling streets and towering buildings of the city. He let out a deep, tired sigh, feeling drained by the conversation with a disinterested expression on his face, he picked up his glass of champagne and slowly made his way towards the door, that signaled the employees that he expects the team to revisit the plan and make necessary revisions as quickly as possible.

The way he closes the door conveyed a strong sense of disappointment, leaving no doubt in anyone's mind that he was not satisfied with the outcome of the meeting.

As Sunghoon walks swiftly, his secretary rushes to catch up with him, panting slightly. The secretary takes a deep breath "Mr. Park, I'm sorry to inform you that your head maid has called multiple times during the meeting."

Sunghoon stops walking abruptly, his eyes widening in surprise and frustration. He turns to his secretary, "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"I'm sorry, sir, I thought it wasn't urgent." The secretary stammers

Sunghoon shakes his head in disbelief and reaches out his hand, , "Give me my phone." The secretary quickly retrieves it from her pocket and hands it over to Sunghoon.

It was a rare occurrence to witness the head maid calling. However, whenever she did, it was an indication that something serious was happening in the house. He hurriedly started walking back to his office, all the while trying to reach the head maid on the phone. Despite his attempts, the head maid remained unresponsive.

As he sinks into his black leather desk chair, his frustration mounts with each unsuccessful redial of the head maid's number. Despite his efforts, the call won't connect. Under his breath, he mutters a string of expletives, his irritation palpable.

As Mr. Park was sitting in his office, his secretary was quietly shuffling papers in the corner. Suddenly, he looked up at her "Please reschedule everything today and move it by tomorrow." He then finished the last sip of his champagne and left the office.

As he stepped out of the building, he squinted his eyes for a few seconds before noticing his car had arrived. He walked towards the service driver, who was already standing next to the vehicle. While thanking the driver for delivering his car. He firmly stated that he would be driving, eager to take control of the vehicle himself. The driver handed over the keys, and he quickly got into the car, buckling up his seatbelt and starting the engine.

As he drove down the winding road towards his mansion, he couldn't help but feel a sense of relief that he was finally back home. With one hand on the steering wheel, he frantically dialed the number of the head maid, hoping to catch up on whats happening. The other hand nervously tapped against the car's leather interior.

The drive wasn't long, but it felt like an eternity to him. Finally, he arrived at his exquisite mansion, which stood tall and proud amidst the lush greenery of the surrounding garden. He parked his car near the entrance and stepped out, taking in the fresh scent of the blooming flowers and the cool breeze that rustled through the trees.

As he approached the front door, he couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia for the last time he had been here. It had been weeks since he had set foot in his own home. The scent of the house felt so surreal for him because he hadn't come home yet ever since he went on a business trip.

As he made his way towards the colossal doors, he couldn't help but observe the gloomy atmosphere of the house. The emptiness of the space was palpable and the silence was deafening. However, amidst the eerie stillness, he suddenly heard the distinct sound of keys clacking and female whispers that seemed to be discussing how they were going to open the door.

The head maid was nowhere to be found. But just in the right time he saw her walking down the stairs towards him.

“Long time no see, Sunghoon,” the head maid said with a deep bow.

“Why weren’t you picking up the phone?” Sunghoon asked, raising his eyebrows in frustration.

“My apologies, I must have left it somewhere,” the head maid replied, looking around nervously.

“So, what brings me here then?” Sunghoon asked, trying to control his temper.

“Your wife,” the head maid replied, her voice hushed.

Sunghoon's face contorted with anger. "What happened to her?" he demanded to know.

“She has locked herself in the bedroom since lunchtime and she hasn’t been eating for the past few days,” the head maid explained, her tone concerned.

“I suppose that you have the keys to it,” Sunghoon said, trying to remain calm.

“I don't. She must have kept it in her hands,” the head maid replied with a shrug, sensing Sunghoon's frustration.

Sunghoon deeply sighed in frustration and put his palm to his forehead. He went upstairs and moved out the two maids who had been trying to find the right keys for hours. He knew that his wife was going through a tough time, but his impatience was getting the best of him. He deeply sighed before knocking on the door.

“Love, it’s me, Sunghoon. Open the door, please. I’m begging you,” he pleaded as he knocked on the door repeatedly.

He waited for a response but still heard nothing. So he repetitively knocked on the door and kept calling his wife on the phone with his other hand.

Sunghoon in question was known for his exceedingly brief fuse, a characteristic that had been observed by the household staff to be progressively deteriorating. It was evident that his temper was getting worse as he grows up, as all the housemaids could sense Sunghoon's fury even from a distance when his wife wasn’t replying. The tense atmosphere in the household was palpable, and it seemed that everyone was walking on eggshells, afraid to set him off.

Without any hesitation, Sunghoon mustered all his strength and threw his shoulder into the locked door.

But no matter how hard he pushed, it just wouldn't budge. Frustrated, he stepped back to assess the situation. After a moment of contemplation, he decided to take a different approach. He used all his leg strength to deliver multiple kicks.

The door creaked and groaned under the force, but it soon gave way.

Despite the loud noise, no one came to stop him. After all, it was his house and he had every right to do as he pleased.

As he opened the door to the room, he was taken aback by the sight that greeted him.

The sound of shattering glass echoed through the spacious room as he looked down to see pieces of glass scattered all over the polished marble floor.

He couldn't help but wonder what had happened in the room. As he inspected the whole room, he noticed that you were nowhere to be seen. However, the sound of running water caught his attention, and he realized that you must be in the bathroom.

He quickly made his way towards the bathroom, pushing aside broken glass that crunched beneath his feet. The maids followed him cautiously. Reaching the bathroom door, he found it closed. Without wasting any time, he knocked gently on the door, hoping you would answer. As he waited for a response, he let out a sigh, still trying to piece together what had happened.

As he stood outside the bathroom door, "Love, it's me, Sunghoon." He waited for an answer but didn't get any response. After 5 seconds of silence, he opened the door. There, he found you sitting on the bathroom floor, with the shower head pouring cold water over you. The maids, including the head maid, who were present in the room, were in shock at the sight of you.

Without wasting any time, Sunghoon sprang into action and swiftly turned off the running water. He carefully checked your pulse to see if there were any signs of life.

Upon discovering that you were still alive. In a calm and steady voice, he informed the maid that you had fainted but were still breathing. "Please call emergency services right away," he said, gesturing towards the door. The maid nodded and immediately left to make the call. Sunghoon remained by your side, , as he waited for the help to arrive.

Sunghoon lifted you up in his arms and carried you to the other room. As he walked through the space, his attention was drawn to the state of the room you shared together. He couldn't help but notice the mess that you accumulated, with clothes, books, and other items scattered all over the place.

...... TO BE CONTINUED .....

this was all written for three hours so yk i was kinda rushing AHHAHAHHA

++ made a few edits because i reread this story and the ending kinda made me feel ehhhh

Continuation - C.R.A II

#enha x reader #enhypen #enhypen imagines #enhypen scenarios #enha #sunghoon #park sunghoon #enha sunghoon #fanfic #fantasy

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strwbmei · 29 days

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In the spirit of me fucking up my knee, could I request a short thing of Keqing/HSR Bronya princess carrying an injured reader?

~Teeth

(Also heya how’s it going?)

Hello, Teeth!! It's been a while! A lot has happened. Normally I'd say that I hope you've been doing well, but the fucked up knee speaks for itself. Not sure how you hurt your knee exactly or how bad it is, so I apologize if anything written here is medically unsafe/incorrect!

Keqing would go full asian mom style. She'd scold you for being careless, saying things like "I told you to be careful!" and to "stop being so reckless!" while dressing your injury. Her words sting, but you can tell that she cares with how careful she's being with you. Also, she insists on carrying you the same way a few days even after you've recovered. Acts strict, but you can get away with a lot more with her during the time that you're recovering. She'll even let you use her lap as a pillow.

"Ow!" You hiss in pain as Keqing tightens the makeshift bandage around your knee. She glares up at you, eyes full of disappointment and irritation, yet also with a hint of worry that only you could discern. "Well, maybe if someone wasn't being such an idiot..."

"Still, be more gentle! You're dealing with an injured person here, y'know?" You complain, and the other woman rolls her eyes in response. "I'm sure it isn't as bad as you make it out to be if you still have the energy to whine."

Suddenly, Keqing stands up and lifts you into her arms with ease, carrying you bridal style as she starts walking. You yelp in surprise. "What are you-"

"Taking a certain idiot to the infirmary." You sort of just stare at her awestruck because she's rarely so... gentle? It's hard to find the right words to describe it, but you're sure this kind of opportunity is rare.

"What, you think I'd let you walk around with an injured knee?"

"Honestly, yeah, a little bit." As soon as you said those words without thinking, you were sure she'd put you down out of annoyance and tell you that you're free to go to the infirmary yourself, but she only stays silent.

"Whatever. Just... don't worry me again like that, okay?"

Bronya... would definitely overreact. There's no other way to word it. Her expression would be akin to a wounded puppy. She'll have all of the best doctors in Belobog taking care of you and the most luxurious bed for you to lay on even if your injury isn't that bad. Qlipoth bless her soul if the doctors even mention the possibility of your injury permanently impairing you, because she is most definitely going into cardiac arrest. After you recover, she makes it a point to ensure every place in Belobog is accessible to people who can't walk.

Although Bronya works as the Supreme Guardian, she's spent most of her life on the battlefield and she's learned many useful techniques from her experience. One of them is basic medical care.

She's not a professional, but her know-how has saved a few comrades' lives. Still, Bronya most certainly didn't expect that she'd have to use this skill of hers on you of all people.

"Bronya... I'm okay now. Really." You say; an attempt to console the very obviously distressed woman in front of you. With how much she's frowning, anyone that saw her would think that she was the one with an injury.

"No." Bronya responds, and honestly, this is the first time you've heard her so... stern. She knows that you aren't lying, but she sure as hell isn't risking your wound getting worse. "We need to get you to a doctor."

On second thought, it's too dangerous to move you around; it'd be better to have a doctor come here themselves. Still, the nearest doctor is much too far away, so Bronya decides to carry you there instead.

As soon as she picks you up, her mind races with a million thoughts all at once. What if it leaves a scar? What if you aren't able to walk normally again? Aeons forbid, what if you won't be able to walk at all? However dramatic, just the thought has her heart sinking.

She senses your unease and takes a deep breath, pressing a small kiss to your forehead. Perhaps her emotions have gotten the better of her. "I'm sorry, my love. You know how I worry for you." She smiles reassuringly. Whether she's trying to reassure you or herself, you don't know.

#strwb inbox #teethoftheeditor #hsr #honkai star rail #hsr bronya #x reader #fluff #bronya rand #genshin impact #keqing #keqing x reader

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femefetalelevelingup · 2 months

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Things i realize while figuring out personal style and beauty in general p1

Fashion (from a fashionistas pov )

1. Finding your colors , cut and materials . It saves you money time and gives you a fabulous outfit

2.regardless of what the pick mes would say on dresses . Its easy to wear when its long or knee length thats a good in day or night

3. Heels is hell for you?? Just use kitten heels or 3-4 inches

4.Try to practice on small to your High limit as well as use the front psrt of your foot (add foot pad gel or band aid.

5. If anyone makes fun of your style that is not like thiers Yes they are jealous simple as that

6.makeup , have your colos checked , skin type etc

7. Invest in good skincare esp asian skincare Thats where the good stuf are!

8. Weekly hair mask with conditoner on the hair (thoes with hair type a and b) (or straight with thickness)

9. Experiment on local or foreign makeup brands find what makes you look amazing and find colors to match the tutorials

10. Find a good tailor or semstress both of you will be great for eachother you can have quality alter clothes to your style& size as well as helping a local seamstress / tailor .

11.keeping a log of online close cataloge ..Helpful . You can use your bed / flat clean surface or dress maniquin to picture , sent to pintrest and folder organize

12. Keeping a dress form, next to making pattern for clothes (mens and womens wear) can use it to preview clothes without soiling them , have them for next day use or event kind with a gown bag / long plastic to cover it or cover in a fabric cover

13. Depotting makeup, easy travel and carry comming from on the job training in behind the scenes fashion shows to daily outting, school events , pictures and travel same goes to carry on toiletries (carry on containers can be specific purchase or reusables)

14. Makeup artist supply stores are great to find some products like brushes , makeup pans etc if you want for starters with other supplies

#fashion advice #femininity #leveling up #fashion #high maintenance #high value woman #asian femininity #asian woman in luxury

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9private-rant0291 · 3 months

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Haters wanna be me but they cant . Period

#haters gonna hate #anti woke #anti fat acceptance #anti haes #pretty privilege #asian woman in luxury

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milknhonies · 3 months

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Sir Sherlock Holmes & The Indian Princess

शर्लक बाबू और भारतीय राजकुमारी

Chapter 1 || Masterlist || Chapter 2

Chapter Summary: In England, Sherlock Holmes receives an alarm letter from his dear friend Doctor John Watson. In Delhi, You don't mind being a teacher, but with new building plans, you reflect on your circumstances and opportunities.

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x Desi!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Slow burn, generational trauma, colonisation, implied murder, death of a parent, classism & caste.

Word Count: 6k

Author Notes:

★ Everything written in bold is being said in Hindustani

★The Reader character goes by the last name Newalkar and is the daughter of Damodar Rao Newalkar → the adopted son of Rani Laxmibai. I must advise this story is pure fiction but based in the occupation of the British Raj that invaded and Colonised India.

★I am a White European/Australian woman, I apologise for any cultural or historical inaccuracies. I am receiving help from online sources and desi Tumblr mutual @livesinfantasyland and I heavily encourage other Indian/South Asian/Desi readers to share their thoughts, constructive criticism and help as I write this story.

Inspiring Song: "Paint it Black" by Ciara

11:35pm Thursday 26th June 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

This story begins and ends with the sound of rain.

Tink!

The roof had begun a leak. And when this leak came to play it had a habit of landing directly on the head of a disgruntled and lonely fellow. The greatest detective in London who could not find a friend. Granted I must inform you, Mr Sherlock Holmes did in fact have some friends, but by misfortunes, none were presently in the country.

Tink!

He angrily sighed. Another drop of rain hit his head.

He launched from his arm chair and grumbling moved an empty teapot to sit on the cushion he previously sat. The drops thus made a small tinkling as they landed inside the empty pot.

Plonk!

He rubbed his eyes and checked the time on the mantle piece clock. He had lost weeks of his life. Hours squeezed down to into unknown days or months, he could not tell. It did not help how he consistently drew the curtains closed to design total darkness other than the fireplace and his candles to light up his home.

A light shiver ran up his spine. The weather was dangerously cold today. His fingertips upon inspection grew from pale white to a dark pink.

Plonk!

He wandered if perhaps it was time to have a holiday in sunny Spain.

A knock on his door broke his imagined vacation like a hammer to glass.

His pesky landlady Mrs Hudson intruded on his stuffy dust filled space. She grumbled nonsense about the filth of her apartment she’s rented out to the famous Detective before handing him a thick envelope.

Plonk!

And the moment he could see and recognised the handwriting he snatched the Letter from her wrinkly fingers and banished her with a bellowing shout. The woman fluttered out and muttered her further disgusts of his treatment.

Plonk!

But Sherlock did not care for her opinion or rather anyone’s for that matter, Sherlock only cares about the stamp he tore opened the parchment he eagerly unfolded.

John Watson. Doctor, soldier and dear friend. He was Sherlock’s greatest companion to note. He had never felt such brotherly love until he met the very man seeking a roommate here in baker street.

Doctor and detective used to comb London for clues to solve crimes and very noticeably took an interest at the sports of pleasure. The luxurious brothels of London welcomed him and his friend with open arms and spread legs. Doctor Watson was the easy victim of sex while Sherlock was one to enjoy his opium pipe and watch his friend succumb to the mouths of half-pound harlots.

And among these adventures of interesting women did the doctor find himself in a savage tussle with another jealous male patron...

Sherlock recalled the evening with mirth. His dear friend, brother in arms had been pummelled to a pulp and drunk as a daisy. So when Sherlock escorted him to a hospital, the imbecile had declared that he was doctor of the ward and did not need any stitches. It is a grand thing perhaps Doctor Watson could not fathom the memory of yelling too proudly that his medicine could be only found in the elixir of a woman’s warm cunny.

His nurse, a dirty bird at heart had giggled at this...that nurses name was Mary Mortenson. And she became the very enamoured Mrs Mary Watson.

Sherlock was not fond of his friend becoming so besotted with his bride. He tolerated the woman’s presences at best. Unspokenly, the detective saw competition to gain the doctors attention and it was becoming far too obvious that Mrs Watson would win. Every. Single. Time.

After a month of young love the married pair had decided their honey-moon should be experienced back in John’s birth land...Delhi, a city in India. Mary was to meet the senior Mr and Mrs Watson. Coincidently, the English rose was not averse to the foreign lands…she so happened to have been born in Agra. Happy and married, they boarded and sailed across the sea.

Sherlock had high hopes their ship would run scarce of supplies so they might return quickly. He missed his dear friend and even his annoying wife.

The letter in between if thumbs and fingers were the first words from them he had gotten in nearly three months. The letter read as followed...

“Dear Sherlock,

Mary and I have come to my home I grew up in as a boy. I was blessed with my parents merry welcome. However, unfortunate circumstances have designed two coffins. For merely a week into our visit my beloved parents have passed. I have yet to decide whether to bury them in the English tradition or burn them in the Hindi ritual. My predicted return back to Baker Street may appear futile and non-existent. Please. Come visit us as soon as it is convenient.

13, 25, 27, 16, 1, 18, 5, 14, 20, 19, 27, 8, 23, 5, 27, 2, 5, 5, 14, 27, 13, 21, 18, 4, 5, 18, 5, 4.

Your sincere faithful friend, Doctor John H. Watson.”

Plonk!

Sherlock’s eyes raced over the page, and cupped his mouth staring at the plethora of numbers. They were not any numbers. John was a simple man, he wasn’t the smartest being but Sherlock appreciated his humble attitudes, he liked the doctor admitting he wasn’t a world genius, just a man who knew his medicines.

So when an enigmatic set of numbers was written at random Sherlock thought of the most simplistic cypher.

For every number was a letter. 1 being A and 26 being Z, leaving 27 to be a space between a word.

His brows lifted. The message was clear and alarming.

Plonk!

“My Parents Have Been Murdered.”

He determined his dear doctor had written this cryptic message under the desire of secrecy. His eyes lit up. It meant John needed Sherlock’s help. A case. Something was amiss. John did not know the killers name. If he did, he would’ve written it or not bothered to write asking Sherlock to visit at all.

He couldn’t have run faster to his rooms to start backing as soon as possible.

Plonk!

Sherlock Holmes had know idea what he was going to find in a land he had only heard stories from Watson’s childhood. He was eager to see his friend, to help him and to finally have an adventure.

01:35pm Friday 11th July 1890, Anglo Arabic Secondary School, Desh Bandhu Gupta Rd, Ajmeri Gate, Delhi.

You dragged the piece of white chalk across a black board and sketched a simple phrase in the English language. You smiled to the young faces that filled the room, sitting in long benches and desks. Their eyes wide and curious, eager to learn.

You waved your hands, “Now, clean your chalk slates students, you are going to learn how to spell good afternoon in English.”

They wipe them down with their small damp clothes and tucked them away in the groove at the top of their slanted desk. You waited patiently until they all sat with their hands resting flat on the wooden desks, mouths shut, eyes seeking knowledge.

You underlined each letter of the first word, “Gee, ouw, ouw, dee, this spells ‘Good’ and now ‘Afternoon’ is Aya, eff, tee, Ee, Ara, eynnn, ouw, ouw, eynn.”

The young boys sounded it out with you. Their sweet pubescent voices unionised. You smiled. They were so advanced at such a young age, most of the boys had come from average and wealthy families that could afford them to come to such a fine school. Many were Muslim, others Hindu, it was a good sign of peace. The youth coming together despite their differences. And on odd days you would teach the white children, boys and girls of British and French families who wanted their children to learn Hindi, Arabic and Urdu.

You didn’t mind teaching white children, some of the boys could be very disrespectful but you gathered it was behaviour picked up from their arrogant fathers. It wasn’t the young boys who had pillaged these lands, it was their fathers and grandfathers.

“The gee,” you circled the G, “Remember in English is also pronounced like Guh and,” you tapped the double o’s, “Ouw ouw in english together when two is said ‘oooowa’. Followed by dee being said as Dah. So, let’s say it together?”

You dragged a white line under the word and sounded it out with your students.

“Guh-oooow-dah.”

You smiled.

You repeated, “Good.”

“Now let’s look at the word ‘afternoon’,” you announced.

You cleaned the board and looked back at your students. One of the little boys who sat in the front was rubbing his eyes. You smiled softly. He was only six years old. His older brother, a young man now would most likely be the one to collect his brother from school and carry him sleeping back home. You looked at the bell tower just outside the window. It was nearly time for your students to go home and you to return back to your lodgings.

“Aye and eff is said as AAaff, then tee is a quick Tuh! And what is Ee and Arrra sound together children?”

“Errr,” they all purred.

You sounded out half of the word with them, “Aafftuherrr.”

You rubbed your chalk dust covered fingers together and further explained as you pointed to each important letter, “eynnn makes a Na, sound. And we just practiced double ouw, so sound it out.”

Like a symphony of speech, you all said together, “Guh-oooow-dah Aafftuherrr, Na-ooow-na. Good Afternoon.”

The deep bowing clang of the bells outside rang through the yard and open window shutters. The children looked eager to leave. Their hands were readily holding their slates, ready to put them inside the empty wooden box in the corner of the classroom where they kept all their slates and dusters and the bucket for where they kept their chalk.

“Good afternoon students,” You bided.

“Good afternoon Teacher Madam,” They called back.

“You may go back home now. Practise your English alphabet song.”

The boys were fast as rabbits, leaping from their desks and fleeing the classroom out the hall and down the stairs. But some at least saluted you as they left. It was a habit they’d picked up from the white boys who saluted their male teachers. You smiled to yourself as you waved them out. Each left with beaming smiles and playful chatter among themselves.

As you went about sweeping the floor after wiping the chalk from the board, you wondered if you should go to the temple and pray for your students successful education or if you should consider washing your clothing today. It had been very dry today, any moment and you knew the wet season and humid rain would arrive to flood the streets clean of dust and fill the forests with life of green goodness.

As you put away the English education books on the small shelves by the door, a familiar face came rushing in, flushed and excited

If it wasn’t her jingling anklet and bangle that announced her To your classroom, it was her shrill cry of your name that did.

“Y/N! Quick!” Miss Anjuli Paraiyars exclaimed, “You need to come with me.”

Her dark ink hair was peaking out from her sun patterned veil. The wispy curls stuck to her sweaty forehead and framed her dazzling walnut eyes. They were flooded with mischief that matched her biting lip. Her brows wriggled lightly.

Placing the last book onto the shelf you turned to acknowledge your dear friend.

“Anjuli,” you happily sighed, “Whatever is the matter?”

She waved her hands about, hoping to quicken you along and out the door, “It is the Watson son, Doctor Watson, he wants to speak with you with important news.”

Your eyes widened. ‘What on earth does that poor soul wish to say to me? After the death of the good Mr and Mrs Watson, I would assume he was still in mourning, why would he call upon me?’

Following your friend outside into the scorching sun, you lifted your saree over your head. She had her family Ox and cart waiting outside the school gates.

“What important news Anjuli?” You said a little standoffishly.

“He’s offering you a job,” She said giddily. She climbed up into the cart and leant down offering her hand to you. Once in the cart side by side she sighed, “That’s all he would tell me,” She grabbed the reigns and cane and tapped the Ox to start moving out onto the dirt road, “But we all know how very generous he can be like his dear parents.”

Anjuli was right. The late Victoria and Hamish Watson’s were angelic to the local community. Victoria had been the very soul to teach your late mother English and she was the one to encourage you to attain education enough to become one of the very few first female Indian teachers. She was a well known philanthropist, often aiding the sick and homeless and funding the Indian hospitals. Hamish was a local accountant, financial advisor and lawyer. He was known to be good to the children particularly. He would often hand out sweets as he walked down the street with his briefcase bag. He often aided the locals find new homes when the British planned to evict them and replace white families in their place. The English couple had lived in the country for many decades, long before you were even born. They spoke fluently enough and mimicked the culture so well that you could’ve believed they were born here themselves.

You sat back and nodded, “May their souls attain moksha.”

02:45pm Friday 11th July 1890, Willingdon Crescent, Central Ridge Forest, Delhi, India.

The sun baked down on the streets of Dehli. The Ox cart rolled along, it’s tail flicking the flies circling it’s flank every so often.

You pinches your saree scarf and covered your face before a bug could fly into your mouth.

Anjuli had to hold the reigns and cane, she leant closer to you and giggled as she nodded to the khaki covered soldiers. Walking by in many small groups.

Anjuli had a terrible habit, she fell in love too easily. For some ungodly reason Anjuli admired the foreigners that had come so long ago and invaded your beautiful country. Maybe she liked how different they looked. The flaxen hair and ice blue gazes in the faces of pale freaks were so opposite to the raven manes and hairy russet warmth of Indian men. It was erotic for her. You just didn't understand how she could so easily find infatuation with the people you considered an enemy, and so should she.

“Oh look at them,” she giggled girlishly.

You rolled your eyes, “I’m looking.” There was a timid strain in your voice. You had no real interest to entertain Anjuli’s fascination.

When Anjuli noticed how you in fact we’re not looking but rather looking ahead on the road path she playfully smacked your arm.

“Look!” She sucked her teeth and teasingly scolded, “Do you not know delight at the sight of men?” She reached forward and abruptly touched the front of your blouse, squeezing around for the softness of your breasts, “Are you sure you’re a full grown woman?” she smiled wickedly and prodded her finger in between your legs covered by your top petticoat.

You squeaked loudly and batted her hand. She howled with laughter and kept giggling even as you scowled at her beneath your veil.

You turned your head away from her and scoffed, “I am not as easily swayed by British soldiers. They look so sickly as pale as they are,” your nose wrinkled, “How could I righteously take a husband in front of beloved Lakshmi and her Vishnu when they look like they tempt Yama too take them at any moment?”

Your friend rolled her eyes, “Oh nonsense,” she tapped your hand and waved her fingers into a crowd of soldiers, “See there that one, his hair the colour of wheat, he is a handsome man. He would make a fine husband.”

And as the cart rolled passed, you couldn’t help gag at the smell of the same man Anjuli proclaimed would make a fine husband.

‘A fine swine perhaps. Many sow in heat could come trotting to him from miles with such a putrid scent.’

Your head wobbled and your flat palm waved at her, “A husbands good qualities are not to stand on his appearance alone. One day he will grow old, fat, bald and ugly.”

A long dragging sigh came out from the woman beside you. She managed to move both reigns into one hand and playfully tugged your saree away from your face

“You’re no fun, come on,” she jerked her chin out to the same street as the ox was about to pass another group, “Tell me you don’t find any of them a little attractive?”

You stared at the oncoming group and now sucked your teeth. You crudely stated, “They’d be far more attractive if they left. Went back to their lands, leave our villages and the people of Bharat in peace.”

Anjuli stared blankly at you. Before she could pinch and prod you again you relented and noticed one of the men in the crowd so different from the others.

He was tall, his hair a dark chestnut that matched the shade of his suit. His face was bare and clean in comparison to the soldiers who all adorned moustaches and muttonchop beards on their faces. He was carrying a rather large brief case and walking stick.

“Fine...that one,” you nodded, “In the brown English clothes.”

“The one wearing a suit?” Anjuli snickered, “He’s not a soldier though?”

You giggled,“And it is for such a reason I find he is most handsome among them.”

You both gazed at him as the ox fully passed by. Anjuli smiled at you.

“He is rather tall. Strong. What do you think he does?” She asked, “Maybe he is a farmer, or a bricklayer?”

You shook your head. ‘No. He couldn’t be.’

“He dresses too finely. It is not their Christian Sunday Sabbath today. He probably is a rich businessman, with a wife and children.”

You looked back to the path as the dusty road became thicker in trees and travel further away from the street. You thought about that strangers wife, what she might look like, probably some English rose with a house full of servants at her command, surrounded by maids and wet nurses for her children. She would live in a grand house and hold soiree’s, welcoming guests from all around to celebrate life. She would have a massive library and a place of worship. It was the life you should’ve had, the life you were owed and denied merely by the changing events of history and the extinguish of your father’s birthright.

Your soft smile faded; you felt a twinge of repulsion mixed with a hint of anger. You’d think after all these years you would’ve chosen to forget this, ignore this, let go and accept your circumstances in this life.... You didn’t live with your father anymore who would remind you practically daily why not to trust the English or any white man, as if you didn’t witness their subjecting abuse and consistent disrespect.

Your eyes fluttered shut, you reached to your side and touched Anjuli’s wrist. She was your truest friend despite her differences and low status. Anjuli came from a Shudra family, and you? You were the daughter, the descendant of Brahims and Kshatriyas...now lowered to the Shudra caste class…You never knew the lavish life of the Jhansi palace, nor tasted the rich foods served on golden plates and surrounded by pretty creatures of the palace menagerie. You would never know the joys of running through the gardens with other children in the royal family.

Everyone was gone, everything was gone. All that was left was your father who scarcely remembered that life but shared all he remembered so his memories would live on through you and bring you hope that one day it would be yours. It was a cruel false hope…

Eighteen years ago, you had been born inside of a nice house in Indore to the daughter of a prestige painter Vasudeoraobhau Bhatavdekar. As far as you knew, your father loved your mother very much for the incredibly brief time that they were married. A rare jewel in beauty is how he described her often. A marriage of love and choice. Your father said she was softly spoken and obedient, but it was her unconditional love for him and his dreams that held his heart in appreciation.

It was by unfortunate command that she would fall ill to childbed fevers after you were born. After you…a girl...not a son. You were nothing in the eyes of the British raj and had no chance of being installed as an heir for any restoration…you were the last hope and failed before your first breath. And that was something you’d never forget.

For a small time, you were raised in that home and then it was decided by your father that you would learn English. His tutors were not available, so he cut your hair short and shipped you off to Delhi with your young uncle Save to the Anglo Arabic Secondary School…It did not take the teachers and headmaster long to discover you were a girl. Before you were to receive the beating of a lifetime it was Mr Hamish Watson who so happened to be accounting the school costs to save you. He took you to his wife who taught you English and then set you to live with his maid servants, Anjuli’s mother.

Your friend spoke after some time of silence, “Oh, I’m meant to tell you- My cousin Vijay sent word this morning, he’s seeking a wife. My mother wants me to ask if you’d like to meet him, a prospective match.”

Your lips curled into a sneer, “Isn’t he the one that use to tie our braids together in a knot during Diwali and chase us around the street making animal noises?”

You recalled a young teenage boy about five years your senior with a tooth gap and ruffled hair. He was so annoying, calling you names and bullying you by calling you fat and ugly. He was spoilt and rude. He mocked you when you told him you were a princess. He said you were a princess of pimple pox and nothing more. Oh how you remembered the way your blood boiled.

“We were children, he was playing, only a boy,” she smiled, “He’s a man now, studying to be a barrister in Bombay but he will be visiting in a few weeks to help us move.”

Ah yes, the dilemma you needed to find a solution too soon. It was a month ago that a letter had been nailed to the house door, it was an eviction commandment made by the British military and government. The Paraiyars family and you had to leave the home in Raisina hill, why? Because the British do what they like…building concrete monstrosities over beautiful land and demolishing the history of your people like it was worthless dust. Rumours spread about a grand governors palace was to be built there, but they couldn’t burn the village to ash with people living inside...well....at least not on their "morally good Christian conscious."

“Vijay I believe owns a cottage near the seaside. You could be his bride and live with him instead of moving back to Indore to your father.”

Moving back was not possible...not after his most recent letter.

“Father has…felt it improper for me to move back to Indore. He believes that my existence would cause me more harm than good under his jailers’ eyes…His pension he shares I give mostly to your mother for board. I have saved my wages, I am considering…moving to a boarding workhouse in Jhansi or Agra, but tell your mother I would like to greet Vijay when he arrives…”

You smirked looking down at your fingernails, “Lakshmi forbid I run out of money and need to resort to the ‘charity’ of Christians or to prostitution.”

Anjuli made a face, shaking her head and brushed her shoulder into yours, “You wrinkle your nose at every man, white, black or bronze,” she smiled cheekily, “I doubt you’d make a good prostitute.”

“Anjuli!” You shrieked.

Both you and her erupted into a large happy shrill of giggles enough to gain head turns from passing public. You and her playfully poked your elbows into each other. Anjuli was right, there was no chance that you could make a suitable prostitute…you hadn’t had sex and didn’t know how to please a man, most men you barely liked. They could be selfish. Anjuli on the other hand, she was a frisky thing. She had kissed a hundred men and given her ‘precious flower’ to a boy back when she was thirteen. She had no shame. Anjuli had shared her sordid tales of lust to you many times. You knew her boyfriends that snuck her out at night and returned her by morning. You promised never to tell her mother or father who surely would’ve disowned her if they knew how promiscuous she was. It was best if they believed she made money with her parents in the markets selling dyed clothes and wooden jewellery boxes.

03:04pm Friday 11th July 1890, 5 Bistdari Road, Central Ridge Forest, Delhi, India.

Arriving to the Watson Bungalow was simple enough, the ox cart rolled and bumped over the rock and sandy grooves of the path. Anjuli pulled the reigns of her beast and helped you both down. She tied her ox to the outside gate posts, the precious creature lowered its head and munched on dry grass that still was hinted in green. The ox would be glad as soon the wet season would hit and all the food delight lush and green would return.

You and Anjuli stepped inside and removed your sandals, Anjuli then led you through the house. It had been some time since you had been here. Anjuli’s mother was dismissed as Mrs Victoria Watson’s maid when the new Watson bride had arrived.

Doctor Watson, their son was a short ferrety man. His face was covered in a long mutton mustache like a snake of hair slithering along his face. He was a grown man from the teenager you had met many years ago. His parents had sent him to Europe to school, as far as you were aware he had join the army and fought in some notorious war battles like The of Battle of Abu Klea.

As you entered the bureau office, you found him hunched over some paperwork, his brows scrunched. His eyes lifted up and brightened his face on seeing you both.

“Oh Miss Paraiyars, Anjuli dear,” he said clapping his hands and opening a drawer in his desk, “Thank you so much dear for bringing darling Miss Newalkar here. Here,” he handed Anjuli a small bag and slipped four rupees into her hand, “and take these sweets back to your Mataji, Mrs Paraiyars.”

Anjuli put her hands together and smiled, wobbling her head before leaving you alone to return outside back to her ox cart.

You had your hands pressed together peacefully while the doctor hobbled over to you from around the desk. He was smiling brightly and nodded his head to you, offering you a chair in front of the desk.

“Y/N thankyou for coming on such short notice. I requested your presence in person to offer you a job position.”

Your smile fell, you sheepishly explained to the man, “I am currently employed at the Anglo school Doctor, Babu.”

The doctor nodded, “Yes…Anjuli tells me you are still teaching the children English and Hindi?”

“Yes Doctor Babu,” you confirmed.

“How much are you paid per month?” he asked quickly, touching his lips lightly in thought.

“Twenty five rupees,” you said softly, you didn’t dare try to sound prideful.

The doctor smiled and pulled out a piece paper contract, he then stated, “I will pay you a hundred per month.”

Your eyes widened, and then narrowed. It was too spectacular to be true, it sounded Impossible. Your fathers pension was only a hundred and fifty rupees a year, for the doctor to give you a hundred per month was unfathomable wealth. What on earth was he wanting from you!?

“What is the position,” you swallowed breathlessly, “Doctor Babu?”

“Housekeeper and…a carer,” he sighed, “I need you to live here, and watch over one of my friends. He is from England and I am afraid he might not understand the customs here.”

He leant against the desk cocking his head and looking down at his feet awkwardly. “Please,” he begged, “he is different to other men. He is particular and perhaps rather spoilt. I need you to make sure he doesn’t get lost, harmed or too upset. It is pressing that I should return to my wife in Agra. I would have hired Mrs Paraiyars, in fact I did offer this role to her, but I have been informed she will be moving and her English is not as it once was…and my English friend is rather…particular and impatient with broken speech...”

He wrote a signature across the bottom of the document and held it out for you to read. It was real…your mouth watered. You could save more than your regular wage and easily move back to Indore without burdening your father or mother’s family.

“If you accept my offer, you may live here as a free lodging, you recall where the servant quarters are I am sure? You will also receive a handsome budget for food. And-” he paused looking up and pocketing the cheque, he gasped, “Sherlock! Dear god man! Did you walk here from the train station?!”

You turned around in the chair and took in the sight of a familiar looking soul.

He was the gentleman from the road. The supposed businessman with his briefcase. He was taller standing here with you then when you sat above in the ox cart. He was standing in the doorway to the office. He stepped inside and lowered his walking stick and briefcase.

“My friend,” the handsome stranger gleefully called, “My dear John Watson, I came the moment I read your message. One of the khaki coated lads pointed me here.”

Up close now you could observe his features on a better judgement. Sherlock Holmes was well known in the British gazette for his distinct physical appearance. With his broad angular frame, sharp hard features, and mighty frame, he exuded a striking and intimidating aura that commanded respect. He reminded you of warriors you imagined before bed in story's of battles your father described at Jhansi Fort.

His face was marked by a strong, sharp pointed nose and intense, deep-set sapphire eyes. His hair was kept combed and short below his ears short and slicked back, revealing his angular eyebrows, and his pink lips that were tightly pursed. He wore a grand brown suit coat with a crisp white shirt, and woolen sweater vest beneath it. And at the base of his throat was a dark burgundy tie. Something about the time reminded you of blood. A cut throat. You felt cold.

His eyes smoothly shifted to you and your presence, his lips parted softly, he glanced back at John, “A patient of yours Doctor?”

The moustached man bristled and shook his head, he stuttered and leant his hand out to you. you carefully chose to take it and rise from the chair as he introduced you.

“Oh- I- Sherlock…um, Sherlock Holmes, I would like you to meet Miss Y/N Newalkar.”

“Miss Newalkar,” the doctor waved his hand over the figure of the giant stock of a man, “This is the very gentleman I was informing you about. This is my friend Detective Sherlock Holmes.”

You pressed your hands together and nodded in greeting. One of Sherlock’s brows raised and his lips hardened in a straight line.

Doctor Watson explained back to the detective, “I was in the middle of discussing whether this dear lady would like to accept a role of housekeeping during your stay here.”

“Whatever for?” Sherlock snickered, “Is your lady wife not up to par with her duties?” he shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked on his leather shoes while his eyes scanned all the way down to your bare feet. It was a crude look of judgement. The westerner seemed to forget not everyone shared the same styles and habits here. You tried not to roll your eyes at him as he scanned your arms and the parts of your belly that the saree did not cover. Those dark blue orbs crawled up and settled over your faux sweetened smiling face.

“Some…plans have come up unexpectedly. Mary is back in Agra, staying safe with her family,” John stated, his fingers rubbed together, “I need to be with her. And the hospitals are in desire of my services as a surgeon. I ask that you will look around, see if you can find anything here…” he leant in closer and whispered to the man, “I will visit every couple of days, to check up on you and see if there is truth to be founded in my suspicions.”

'Suspicions?'

“John…” the detective pat his friends shoulder, “I am happy to see you. I promise I will do my very best.”

“Thankyou,” said the doctor.

Sherlock jerked his chin to your direction, “How much does the dear girl here know?”

“Well, I…not much,” the doctor blushed and looked back to you, “Miss Newalkar, your thoughts on the job position role?”

You swallowed and nodded slowly, “I accept the conditions, thankyou for your most gracious offering, Doctor Babu.”

The doctor smiled and carefully touched your back, leading you to the exist of his office as he happily stated.

“Splendid! Please, this is the contract. Sign it and return with your belongings later on a few hours while I converse with my friend and guest.”

You looked back at the mysterious Sherlock Holmes and back to the contract. You wobbled your head in goodbye and went on your way. The way you could feel his eyes over your body walking away made you shiver. He was a intimidateding looking man. You left the home and slipped your sandals on.

You thought about how you would now be the housekeeper of a prestigious British family in the community. A wave of relief to your stability washed over you. You didn’t need to crawl to your father and your mother’s family. You started smiling ear to ear. All you needed to do was take care of a house and baby-sit an Englishman who was vulnerable to these new lands.

“Did you see him go in?” Anjuli smirked from the ox cart, waving you over, “The British man you fancied?”

You jerked your chin up proudly exclaiming, “I met him.”

Your friend gasped with a wide smile, “What is he like?”

“I don’t really know,” you shrugged before waving the contract in front of your friends face, “but I am going to be his housekeeper, I need to inform the school of my resignation.”

Anjuli looked at the contract, she couldn't read english but made a light sad sound and sucked her teeth before sighing, “Oh, those children will miss you dearly.”

And that you could both agree. You grabbed the ox reigns and tapped its flank with the cane rolling back to the school again quickly to collect your last wage.

Helplines:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

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charles-leclerizz · 2 months

Text

AISHA PATEL

"You walk a fine line between beautifully macabre and uncharacteristically psychotic."

AP77 🇮🇳

Nickname : Phataka [hindi : Firework]

Born : April 13 2002

moodboard

First and only child of Priya Patel & Arham Patel, both Indian born adults.

ESTP

Slytherin

Neutral Evil

Aries Sun , Leo Moon , Gemini Rising

[NOTE!: Thank you so so much to @witchthewriter for natal chart lessons, Hogwarts house, MBTI and the Moral alignment, links and in depth explanations. Made making this character sketch, so much fun!]

Social media

instagram

twitter

twitch

spotify

tiktok

Interviews

VOGUE - Racing in Style: Aisha Patel's Fashion Journey

GQ - The Gentleman Racer: Aisha Patel's Grooming Tips

ESQUIRE - Beyond the Checkered Flag: Aisha Patel's Life Off the Track

HARPERS BAZAAR - Beauty Beyond Borders: Aisha Patel's Global Perspective

ELLE - Breaking Barriers: Aisha Patel's Impact on Motorsport

VANITY FAIR - Driven to Succeed: Aisha Patel's Philanthropic Vision

ROLLING STONE - The Soundtrack of Speed: Aisha Patel's Musical Influences

PEOPLE - Family First: Aisha Patel's Personal Journey

TOWN & COUNTRY - Luxury Living with Aisha Patel: Racing in

INTERVIEW MAGAZINE - Artistic Vision: Aisha Patel's Creative Perspective

ALLURE - Trackside Beauty Secrets with Aisha Patel

ARCHITECTURAL DIGEST - Home Sweet Home: Inside Aisha Patel's Racing Residence

FOOD & WINE - Fueling Victory: Aisha Patel's Race Day Recipes

ENTREPRENEUR - Driving Success: Aisha Patel's Business Ventures

TRAVEL + LEISURE - Globetrotting with Aisha Patel: Racing Around the World

HEALTH - Mindful Racing: Aisha Patel's Mental Fitness Routine

FASHIONISTA - Trackside Trends: Aisha Patel's Racing Fashion Forecast

TECH CRUNCH - Driving Innovation: Aisha Patel's Tech-Savvy Approach

TIME - Racing Against Time: Aisha Patel's Journey to Success

OPRAH MAGAZINE - The Power of Positivity: Aisha Patel's Inspirational Story

Introduction

Aisha Patel, born and raised in the United Kingdom to Indian immigrants, Priya and Arham has finally made it to the big leagues! Having nurtured an intense interest in racing and motorsport, often watching Formula One races with her family, her long-time dream is finally coming true.

Her parents, much like most Asians, tried to push their daughter into a more stable profession but soon relented as they watched her skill grow and her flame burn like an inferno.

When it came out that Porsche would be replacing the beloved Haas F1 team on the grid, she jumped at the chance, displaying her racing skills in F3 & F2 by dominating the podiums and impressing a talent scout who hand-picked her for the spot.

Aisha is an ambitious woman, determined and headstrong as she blazes through any blockages that may present themselves whilst consistently pushing herself to the limit both on and off of the track.

Her confidence is infectious as she holds her own candle, always perfecting her skillset whilst embarking on her travels to becoming the first South Asian woman to win a World Drivers Championship. Yet, she remains humble, remembering her roots and maintains a down-to-earth persona that embraces all of those around her.

Driving style

Aisha's driving style is ruthless and aggressive, she becomes a killer when on track as the adrenaline fills her up to her ears and all she can think of being first and staying first.

Although, the young driver has also proven herself to being one of the most calculated on the grid, maintaining her killer instincts whilst upholding an ice cold strategy, whether her race engineers like it or not. She can easily adapt to different tracks and wastes no time in becoming one with the tarmac beneath her wheels.

Yet, she still needs to mature her driving sense, sometimes some fights are not worth it and are not worth sacrificing a front wing for. Her predator like rivalries can sometimes leak over into post-race cool downs, and it has been observed, one too many times that she has been squaring up drivers who made, in her words, "A wrong fucking move, and cost [her] a podium." despite their seasoned years in the game, and her lack thereof.

Radio Snippets

[NOTE! : Graphic created by me [@charles-leclerizz]]

📍Australia, Melbourne

⎯ AP77 : “Guys, is it just me, or did I just see a kangaroo trying to overtake me? What's the strategy for dealing with wildlife on the track?”

📍Monaco, Monte Carlo

⎯ AP77 : “Can someone remind me which one is the gas pedal and which one is the brake? I feel like I'm playing Dance Dance Revolution with these hairpins.”

📍Canada, Montreal

⎯ AP77 : “These curves are more confusing than deciphering my ex's cryptic texts. Can we dial up some clarity with the next strategy update-”

📍Austria, Spielberg:

⎯ AP77 : “Yodeled my way through the last turn like a true Alpine pro. Can we add some lederhosen decals for good luck?”

📍Italy, Monza:

⎯ AP77 : “These curbs are bumpier than a rollercoaster. Can we add some extra suspension or a chiropractor on standby?”

📍Japan, Suzuka:

⎯ AP77 : “Think I found Godzilla's cousin on Turn 3. Can we arrange a family reunion after the race?”

📍USA, Austin:

⎯ AP77 : “Can we paint the car like a cowboy hat for the next race? Yeehaw vibes for extra speed.”

📍Brazil, Interlagos:

⎯ AP77 : “I may have mistaken the Senna S for a dance floor. Can we get some rhythm in the next set of turns?”

📍Mexico, Mexico City:

⎯ AP77 : “Trying to break the lap record to earn a lifetime supply of tacos. ”

📍Belgium, Spa-Francorchamps:

⎯ AP77 : “Eau Rouge, more like Eau Confusion with all these ups and downs. Can we add a rollercoaster warning sign for the next lap? ”

📍Netherlands, Zandvoort:

⎯ AP77 : “Feeling more like I'm dodging tulips than racing on a track. Can we add some windmills for the full Dutch experience? Over.”

honourary tags [for special pookies] : @disneyprincemuke, @weekendlusting, @woozarts, @mellowarcadefun.

127 notes · View notes

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