This post was published in American Kahani. What is up with kids not saying “Trick-or-treat” anymore? They show up at your door, silently stick out their Halloween buckets, and wait for you to do the needful — whether that’s distributing the candy yourself, or sticking out the oversized bowl with the undersized treats. As the kids stood there in front of me, peering to see what kind of candy I was giving, I asked “What are the magic words?” Confused, one responded, “Please?

My eyes snap open at 7:25am with the melody of my alarm. I fell asleep early last night, and so waking up in the 7’s isn’t as painful as it usually feels. I remind myself to preheat the oven for my son’s breakfast, as I remember that today is the day he doesn’t like the school lunch. What will I give him? Yes -- we had discussed and agreed upon last night’s shrimp fried rice leftovers. “Remember to put tissues in your pockets,” I tell him, heading out the door. As we drive o

In an attempt to both write more, and to give credence to the philosophical musings and mini-monologues running in my head around subjects from the mundane to the extraordinary (mainly mundane) -- I draw inspiration from a friend's blogposts that begin with a "100 words" piece - and begin my similar practice. A hundred and one though, because, you know ... shubh/auspicious. I actually have no idea how much or how little one hundred words is. I suspect that my posts will far

This post was published in American Kahani. See the post here. My heart is heavy - grieving with sadness, anger, hopelessness. Even as I type, I feel a lump forming in my throat, and my vision blurring with the tears that well up in my eyes. As I get ready for my morning routine, I grab my Wakine backpack, and am reminded of the shopping mall, next to the Lahaina Safeway where I bought it, and have treasured it since. I wear a pair of shorts from a small boutique in Napili,

This poem is about that time when life came to a halt. When suddenly all that we knew was good & safe was stripped away from us, and instead we were left with uncertainty, forced to live one day at a time, and deal with low level trauma. This poem is about the time when roti, kapda, makaan (bread, clothes, house) became the most important parts of daily life. What will I cook for the next meal? This poem is about the time when the dishes seemed to be growing out of the sink

My first childhood home has retained a magical quality for me. We lived there from when I was nearly 6, to when I was 10 years old. Only five years, but somehow, that home has remained with me my whole life. In fact, just last week, it was in my dreams yet again. There is an innocence and fascination in that home, which is not in the homes that followed. The only thing I can speculate differentiates that home from the rest is the fact that I was always a child in that home -