Creative Non-Fiction
“What about Mummy’s saris?” I ask my father after thirty years
“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...
Accoutrements of Hiraeth
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...
At Home in My Skin
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?...