Last evening, I watched him in his natural habitat— being effortlessly brilliant. Danish Husain . I had first listened to him at the Bangalore Poetry Festival , where his chiseled eloquence, non-conforming attitude, “I said what I said” energy, and laser-sharp observational eyes hooked me instantly. So when Sonali told me his plays were coming to Ranga Shankara , I was already halfway in the queue (in my mind at least). But of course, weekends being weekends—full of cooking,

Yesterday, my house help had fallen sick, leaving me to balance the Mikado of domestic logistics while chasing the green ticks of a normal busy Wednesday. I tiptoed across my calendar like someone performing slow-motion Tai Chi—strategic, focused, and painfully aware that any wrong move could send the whole day toppling over. I haven’t felt that level of concentration since I played Minesweeper with the ferocity of a child desperately trying to impress her father. But of cour

Stranger Things happened to us once in 2016 and then again in 2026. For many reasons, we never followed it closely over the years. But when we returned to it in 2026, the story came in waves. It soaked us in its humor, love, emotions, and messiness, and then promptly drowned us in anxiety and fear, compelling us to pray for this small family that kept growing against all odds. The writing alone deserves a long discussion on some other unhurried Sunday. Yesterday afternoon, wh

"Por que, por que" she pressed her glasses in mock indignation - tiny goblets - against the tumblers held by the owner. The night was a little nippy but people waited patiently, smoking, drinking; people bundled up with Glovo delivery baskets strapped, awaiting the pizzas. We had walked the alley that had tiled artwork with faces and poems of Florbela Espanca and her love for the vast plains of Alentejo, beyond the Tagus. I did not see her at first. In fact, we had only chatt

The reversals It is seven fifteen, A tells me. We are both awake as the noisy neighbours from adjacent rooms knock at each other's, calling for 'mummyji' or enquiring 'ready ho gaye kya'. A draws away the blackout curtains but it is only the blobs of white light globes from the street below that glow; the sky hasn't lightened up at all above the Fulham Public Mortuary that overlooks our hotel. We are in London, a few days before Christmas, and my son tells me how the air feel

One could choose the onward journey for speed and precision, but the return might still be on the slow line. A return for documented identities and paraphernalia, however temporary. And then one might see the sunburst of oranges on every house tree, the peeling paint of Ovar and the shine of Cacia as a return north from the sweet Aveiro is ordained. One must stop at Espinho for the mirth that beauty brings.     This is where one will find her     face between the handrails,  

Why do you travel?

The first morning in London, I woke up to cheerful voices on the other side of the wall. “Good morning, Mummy ji. Good morning, Papa ji.” I jerked awake and sat upright on a bed that clearly had strong opinions about comfort, and none of them were favourable. After a few seconds of frantic self-orientation (Where am I? Who am I? Why am I awake?), I reached for my phone on the bedside table. 7:15 a.m. My mind immediately went into crisis mode. It has been years since I have wo

You are the only crack I can snort. The only bubble of oxygen I draw in. You are the last prayer my beads can count. You are the last leaf I have painted for myself.

You get down at Chickpet metro station instead of K. R. Market, to go to K. R. Market Apparently this where it all began - four bulls running in four directions as Hiriya Kempegowda laid the foundations of Bengaluru in the territory marked by the spots where the bull runs ended Yelahanka in the North and Domlur in the east had existed event before the wooded middle became Bangalore The appetite of the city is on display in the mounds of fruits that you will walk past - the ap

Andrea is a nerve: touch them once and an entire cosmos rushes through you. They are a lone constellation in a pitch-black sky, lighting just enough for you to imagine the galaxy you belong to. They remind you of the love pulsing quietly around you—in the shy leaf of a sprout pushing through slushy spring snow, in the cracked scales of an old tree’s bark, in the quick scramble of chipmunks chasing nuts, in the toppled mailboxes leaning by the roadside, in those endless yello

Andrea Gibson loved cliches, so they begged for living only when life started coming sealed in emailed blood report, three weeks at a time. Andrea Gibson was a slam poet, a non-conforming poet, the tenth poet laureate of the state of Colorado, USA. I had not known her then, though I had driven along the same highway 36 and then taken the foothills parkway exit to CO-119 that runs towards infinity, but lets you get off at Longmont. Around the middle of this year, when their fo

Zohran Mamdani became the hundred and eleventh mayor of the most enigmatic city of the modern times. Zohran Mamdani, a brown-skinned son of immigrants from Africa and Asia, won the election with a promise for affordable homes in a priced-out city. Zohran Mamdani, a muslim, trumped fear of socialism with songs, dance and re-discovery of an ancient source of human energy - hope. I have had my juvenile share of euphoria that emanates from election campaigns - a wild performative

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