She was a character in one of the books I read as a girl. It was her again in another book. And another. So it was me. I was going to become her, for I grew up reading her. Now I don’t have the courage to deny his love for it’s unusually true. And wrong. … More Mood.

Page 1

It’s the time of June and the leaves are green. She’s 23 now, standing tall by the French windows in a long blue skirt. She thinks about the Acacia trees back home and the faint light in the hallroom. A cowshed, where a slim snake had meandered on the wall when the cows were out … More Page 1

Sixty one

I remember it had rained, when my mother had had my hair combed sideways. It was my birthday and we were in a hotel room. A roof house down the building, at the side of which was a mango tree with green leaves. I had stood at the open window and watched the raindrops pour … More Sixty one


She gaped down one more time at her first child whom she just gave birth to, in a room that was flushed with tubelights. The baby girl looked like her father, she thought, as she imagined her husband back home with an uneven garden outside, unaware of his new born. She held her baby close … More Sixty

Fifty nine

My mother came in through the doorway, stirring rice and curry on the plate. Outside, Acacia trees on top of the mound moved towards the wind in silhouette, against the grey sky that had been watching all the horror. On the plate, my mother continued mixing rice with curry as she sat on the sofa … More Fifty nine

Fifty eight

I sat with my mouth opened when I learned that his mother was a writer. ‘Are you serious?’ I finally asked him. ‘Yeah, she would write articles for newspaperas, both Kannada and English’ That’s amazing, I told him, to have a writer mother. He nods his head with another ‘yeah’ and rolls his eyes away … More Fifty eight