Why I Write?
I was raised in a middle-class family in New Delhi, India where education was key, fresh pomfret fish for dinner was a treat, and budget-conscious holidays in hill stations defined our summers. As a young girl, I was expected to apply myself at college, get a job that would allow me to be financially self-reliant, get married, and have kids—in that order.
Given this worldview, “writing” was a bourgeois activity, encouraged by my mom, who was an avid fan of Reader’s Digest and Harlequin romances.
There\’s A New Demon in Town: Lord Corona
Good thing it was her shift that night.
Reema was sweaty and grumpy. In full PPE (gown, N95 mask, face shield, and gloves) for the past five hours. Every time she exhaled her glasses and face shield fogged up. She tasted stale air and burnt coffee from breathing in and out through her mask. (Note to self: schedule teeth cleaning on a weekend that you are not on call!)
She got a page. Getting a page marked ‘urgent’ was not unusual because the St. Vincent de Paul Modesto Shelter had new admissions all the time for people experiencing homelessness who were positive for Covid-19 and need a safe place to recover. But the content of the page was unusual. A new mom and her two-week-old baby with Covid-19 were on their way to the shelter.
Corona on Campus
Kavya took a deep breath and released it—exhaling deeply—just as her mother, a yoga teacher, had taught her to do. Last month she had finally set foot at the University of Miami campus—a day she’d been dreaming of since she entered high school.
True, college no longer looked as it had when she’d toured the campus in April 2015 with her mom and brother—at that time, crowds blocked the hallways and stairs. Kids here, kids there, everywhere, laughing, shouting, rushing to and fro, greeting one another, and talking over their plans for the school year. She’d spent the time roaming around, familiarizing herself with the layout of the campus, and learning the names of the various fraternities and the buildings where they were housed—some old and vine-clad, others new and shiny in the sun.
Dating and Mating During Covid-19
Her son turned 28 last week. Dating was complicated for Avi and often a clumsy dance even in the best of times. Given the pandemic and the fear of a highly contagious virus for which there is yet no cure, he had resisted every conversation Priya tried to have with him about going out and meeting someone.
“Bumble allows virtual or socially distanced-with-a-mask dates,“ she said to him at the dinner table as he spooned for himself a generous helping of the chicken curry and rice. She had made his favorites in readiness for this conversation—crisp masala okra, raita with cucumbers, and Karahi chicken curry. It was a bonus time they were enjoying with him ever since he had moved back home during the coronavirus lockdown, and she was determined to get him hitched. “Or, if you have Zoom fatigue, we can try the Mumbai matchmaker from the show on Netflix that everybody’s been talking about, “ she continued, busying her hands with adding sweet tamarind chutney to a petri dish.
My City is on Fire
Imagine that you’re a young couple on holiday at an Airbnb in the town of Seven Oaks. You’re there for a month to get away from the madness of the pandemic and social distancing guidelines and the fear of getting sick. Suddenly, you’re caught in the crosshairs of a California wildfire. That’s what happened to Veer and Maya.
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Veer had made incredibly good time, mostly because he had jogged the majority of the way. Now he was sweaty and gross, despite the strong wind that kept finding him as he went. At least the run had cleared his head a bit and put him in a more positive mood. It would be lunchtime by the time he got home again. Or, at the least, a late brunch-time, but he and Maya would have something wonderful to eat and, either way, things would be okay.
What To Keep and What To Throw, When Nothing is Normal?
Arun inhales deeply, contorts his body in a suryaasan, and exhales his breath out in a rush. Memories of his father crowd into his brain like pictures on a screen.
A week ago came the earth-shattering phone call from Kakaji the manservant who had lived with his Dad for thirty years. More family than caretaker—Kakaji was lank and shriveled of limb, grizzled of hair with a crooked eagle beak, and a Hitler-like mustache, but dependable and always-present.
The funeral took place in 24 hours. “They don’t hold the body here for more than 48 hours, Arun beta,” Kakaji had croaked.
Where Do We Go Now?
Ravi Yadhav and his family of four had no desire to leave the slum colony on the outskirts of Sarita Vihar in New Delhi. Only an open sewer overflowing with rubbish separated their cluster of mud houses and bullock cows from Sarita Vihar’s gleaming skyscrapers and brand-new apartment towers that stood like fists raised triumphantly towards the Gods. The smell of the slum—of urine, the stench from the open sewer, old grease, and burning cow dung sometimes so clogged his nostrils that the naked longing to feel again the fresh scent wafting from the golden fields of wheat in his village made his stomach clench.
Dressed For A Kill
Yay!!!!
Yippeee!!!
My short story titled Dressed for a Kill was recently published in Rigorous journal. This story is excerpted from my novel (The Awakening of Meena Rawat) to be released on May 27, 2021 by Black Rose Writing press.
Click on the link below for the story:
Pandemic Life Musings . . .
At the start of the pandemic, my twenty-four-year-old nephew who’d come home from Los Angeles to check in on how my husband and I were doing (given our dangerous age bracket, he’d said) went out and bought two gallons of Arrowhead pure distilled water.
He is three months overdue for a haircut so that his hair looks like a black mop as he stands with his hands on his hips, and when he smiles, he looks almost radiant. I turn sparkling eyes on him, beaming a Tom Cruise worthy smile at his thoughtfulness. Inwardly, I cringe. My American nephew is used to purified water from a water filter pitcher. I’ve grown up with water bursting from a rusty tap in a kitchen with twenty-year-old appliances, the pictures of Guru Nanak and Pandit Nehru hanging on the wall, the remains of a cockroach that was pounded on the head still to be cleared from the gaping drain hole.
Finally, Sweet Success!!
It’s official!
I’m beyond THRILLED to announce that I have received an offer of publication for my second novel, a love story about two Dalits (Untouchables) that explores their quest for identity, and the divisions of class and culture over three decades.
An excerpt from this novel was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2019.