Creative Non-Fiction
Every year, on the heels of monsoons, when the mountains are freshly washed and our valley is exuberant with green, the ancestors arrive. Even before I open my eyes, my body wakes to my grandmother Beji’s cooking. At five years old, I’m more hers...
A new song sung; nay, belted out by a familiar female voice floods the car as Idrive to the library one morning— Main thaare paon ki jutti na Ke jad jee kare per li utaar di I’m not the slipper on your footthat you use and discard at your whim I...
“Tsk…later, eat these first.” Daddy points to piping hot samosas. ‘Got them specially for you.’ It’s been thirty years. He doesn’t know I’ve turned gluten free. I ask again. “We must’ve given them to the maids or something…it’s been thirty years.”...
Deep winter. Dehradun. I’m five years old. Papaji, my grandfather, is collecting glowing embers of coal from my grandmother’s chullah (earthen stove) in the courtyard. He’s using a pair of old iron tongs, no bigger than his large farmer’s hands, to...
Born of Punjabi stock, I've inherited the following traits: 1. An innate urge to use made-up, superfluous, and rhyming words. For example, kee laoge—cha, sha, ya paani, shaani? (What would you like? Tea/shea or Water/shawter?) 2. An involuntary...