Photo by Sean D Silva, GNU Free Documentation License, via Wikimedia Commons A woman in a pink kurta settles in the seat next to mine, stirs, and stretches her legs. My writhing desire for a hunk occupying a space this close is now crushed. Standing right before me in...
A place we fell in love with and made our home, a place where crabs crawled up to the porch as we sat in bamboo chairs, sipping our morning chai, inhaling the fragrance of frangipani, listening to the bulbul song we had come to expect, the first rays shining into our...
If we were not divorcing, you’d gaze with expectation of my response when telling me that large fragments from outer space crash onto earth, create craters that never fill, except with a perennial stream. If we were not discussing lawyers and fees and settlements in...
Photo by Alexanderphoto7 / Shutterstock.com quantum of pepper in a Bloody Mary so perfectequates tipsy to happyrolling down my throatin jeeps of pinwheel candyseducing stomachyou Sir be a fine mess belly blushing a baby’s pinkmy frame a door to seaweed pleasure to...
Wrapped in the fabric of my pink dupatta, Begum Bazaar is the fabled navel in the eye of antiquity. The streets stomach quaintness mutely, like measured gulps of Irani chai. We walk on, moving in a soft-haze of sounds and colors. You propose a game of make-believe. We...
Photo: Damian Pankowiec / Shutterstock.com Jewellery’s never been my thing. But when I saw you in those silver earrings, I wanted to own all the earrings ever made, just so some could look half as good on me. They weren’t even real silver—you said you bought them for...
