(In memory of Pritish Nandy) January the eighth, twenty twenty-five.I wake up early,go for a long......

As I leafed through Kin, an anthology of poetry, prose, and art by women from Romani,......

Savarna feminism plays pin the blameWhy feminism calls me aggressive,Says I’m too loud,Too much attitude, too......

Has it rained enough for all of her blood to be washed away?Have the clouds beaten......

I can’t help but panicThere’s a lost poemInside caresses of handsOf women who never learned to......

Who made dinner while Rumi whirled?Who mopped the floors while Rabindranath sat in quiet contemplationAnd did......

we are girlsour wild mares do not rush like raintowards the endings of our lines squares......

Hiding under the bedThe child bride holds in her handsA book of stories. Next to her......

let’s call her neela, those wild blue eyessapphire gazingwhile you point a white torch in the......

It is the nerve of us, the verve of usstanding still, holding hands, keepingthe line of......