Memoirs

Migration stories from Bangalore’s hinterland Walking back from the Naveena-Praveena shop, our little nameless village store run by a pair of brothers, we fell into step with a youngish man. We looked at him with the diffident gaze of strangers. Suddenly, as

I finally took a shower after stinking for two days and wearing the same clothes for over 48 hours(even slept in them). I can’t recall if I brushed my teeth yesterday, though I did so this morning. I stillfeel I’m stinking! This

Yellow Idlis. They always made me feel warm and normal. Sundays was when Maa cooked idlis, not the white boring ones–the Kanchipuram yellow idlis, cooked on a banana leaf, with that little bit of extra effort in it. I think it was

On an autumn Sunday morning in Kolkata, the air was nippy, and my bed was warm when I felt my mother patting my face. Her touch felt light on my skin; her palms were soft and fluffy, like the pillow under my

It was post lunch break. The History period. Our teacher had just begun addressing our class. Out of the blue, one of the trustees of our school, a silver-haired hulk of a man, strode in with a cane in his hand. It

T’s eyes were puffed and tired. She also had a headache. Sleep had proved elusive last night. And not just for her family but also for others who shared that slum location as their address. A few nights earlier, some houses in

I was taught to say sorry and thank you from a very young age. Polite little girls pleased people. I apologised for mistakes I did not make and was punished for opinions I was not meant to have, for speaking loudly and

All Joined and Disjointed – but I had to say it all. (Also, I am an idiot) The wave and nod of the watchman or sabziwala or the old lady with the sun-baked skin, are not part of their work or role

Dirty – is such a dirty word. A neat little package of judgment summed up in 5 letters from the morally superior, their final verdict on your personal hygiene or lack of it, your roving mind and your desires that the virgin

“Tumhari daawat hai aaj humare yahan” (You are invited for a party tonight). Words that would stir mixed emotions in me each time I heard them echo from my phone. I would be annoyed because it meant not being able to spend

What is the story of a name- any name? I lie thinking about this, half asleep in my sick mother’s bed. This is where most ideas turn to visions and then thoughts in my drugged brain these days. What I see first

“Mumma, I’m feeling giddy,” I whisper in a tired-sounding breath. This is the second time in one week and the nth time in the past couple of months that I’m giddy. Ma and Papa were initially impressed by my vocabulary as a

It was time for my parents to find a suitable boy for me. It gave me exciting encounters, interesting revelations and a name for my Substack account. This was during a two year period when Udit and I were ‘on a

‘I was her friend even before I was born.’ This thought raced in my young mind as my mother, and I crept silently to Lily’s mother’s room. The room was huge, with a high ceiling and windows with ledges and ornate

How many times have you been asked when you’re getting married? When will you have kids? Or what you have planned for your future? I promise If I had a dollar for every time some random person asked my parents

As Covid-19 swept across the world, it has challenged and altered society in ways previously considered unimaginable. Out of all the challenges and alterations, working from home became the emerging norm as virtual meeting platforms such as Zoom, Google Meet,

I was a ray of hope for my loved ones, the eldest one in the family and the only sister to a younger brother. I was expected to guide those younger than me and be a role model with no proper guidance.

  To keep our guesthouse refreshed, a team of three used to enter my room every day. Usually, it consisted of two girls and a boy. Or, you could call them women and men. They are still in their youth. Young women

I was educated with words. What I discovered about painting through painting is that it is a language that can go as far as any other language. It is not a surface thing. We are used to communicating with words. Painting

I kept it hidden, my skeleton in the closet, not to be aired for fear of what society would say.I am a survivor of child sexual abuse. I didn’t make the decision to talk about my experience lightly.    But I