The body is an archive that remembers without hierarchy. Touch and smell, reluctance and abandon, mess......

Some books are not just retellings of earlier stories; they tweak the edges, like pulling threads......

RM: Hello Lalita! It’s so good to talk to you. Thank you for taking out time......

I don’t like red, the mushy insides of a watermelon, Palash, Modar, thread-work on a Gamusa......

The ones I gave birth to are ten today The ones who were never meant to......

Our dying fathers, taken inward, no longer embrace us cheek-to-cheek, but become the tongue within our......

Look It has fallen in my courtyard Chopped down My Neem tree has fallen The swing......

I’ll still remember the big amber traffic light beaming on like a wristwatch of worn out......

Our memories are crowded With Great grandmother’s jewellery Passed down the generations Great grandfather who supported......

Those Bombay Sundays My father woke up his usual ‘early.’ ‘Seize the day’, he would say.......