April 2025

When Fire Met Water Stop acting coy now, and come right back here! Don’t you dare raise your voice…stop testing my patience! Did you say no? Thwack, thwack!! Try saying that again! Ambika sat up with a start, beads of sweat lining

first spring blossomsstreaming down in thehot-pink windagainst an azure skyone by oneexudingtheir spicy perfumeinto the earth’s poresintoxicating scentsswirlingaround & aroundmaking the airheavy & drunk below insidethe mother treea cluster of blue flowerssprouting like childrenopeningtheir armsheavenwardawaiting their maturityto shedtheir petalsto pour out theirfiery

spring deepens…almost open lilac budspulsating light cherry tree in bloom –love is sweeterunder its branches it flows from the gutter –the morning sun carressingthe house porch blossoms after dark –the sky pulsating perfumein pastel pink the solar lampin the garden turns on…cherry

Scattered sunrise peeks out from the horizon,its warm colour clotting the sheets, oh! that Indian blush, the morning awakensslowly on flushed skin. If one can only be so lucky to find oneselfin these moments in time, when there is balance to be

If you were to travelto the opposite hemispherethe moonwould appear upside down.I think about that a lot.— my moon is a capsized shipto people way up north— if I were everto set foot on the motherland,my world would be flipped entirely.What does

An Unending DreamLike a moss coatedon the balconies of childhood…The white-necked crow ,who perches dailyon the branchesof coffee tree .In Umma’s languageit’s a ‘town crow.’my imagination haswings larger than the crow’s.Would the town crowcarry my message to “Waappa?When Umma gave a tinkling

Ohh Mother, oh dear mother…Where are you…Did Abu bring the chart papers for my project..? Does my sister still steal my rosy robes..? Does your Musakhan taste as delicious as before..? Ohh mother , how I crave,for a fleeting moment to grasp

Women are never hungryyou see, through the artists eyesthey are but food, noodle-like,long, voluptuous or nubileand ham-med in,always sitting besideupon but never at the tablewomen are to be consumed. women are never hungryas through the system of servitudethey make and make food,stirring,

when she goes missing, we ought to be screaming our lungs blue and throats running parched but when we cry out the first thing we will be told is to go silent, a pillow placed upon our screech. a girl missing is

Preheat the ovenBeat the sugar with the wet ingredientsSift together dry ingredientsStir everything togetherRoll into ballsBake for 8-10 minutes I preheateverything.The oven ready forthe next batchbut nothing goes in. And stillit isn’t enough.I tried to put theingredients in there,the salmon,the avocado,the other

Some nights I commune with the ghostof my mother’s younger self.She floats in the cold half-light,like a Rose of Sharon,serene in her surrender. In this dreamscape,I touch the splicing on her torso,where a ribbon of jute binds her graftings.We walk hand in

“Sona Bis,” they announce from the stage. My name. I think to myself. My truncated, distorted name. Like a lot of things about me. Ma nudges my arm. I take some time getting up, as I gather the end of my saree

On the bed of snowI bled happinesspeering at my kin,swallowed by sorrow.The valley illuminedin goblets of red;the vista transformedinto humdrum high.Elated, heaved…my pulse of hopedeclined steadily —eternity blossomed.