I am driving home from my brother’s place. Amma is in the passenger seat beside me. Pattu and Laddu are
Ammu is curled up in a ball at the end of the sofa. Laddu and Pattu are tossing a balloon
It was 1:30 PM, that time of the day when I prioritize napping over everything else when the phone rang.
I am almost done with cooking. I look at the kovakkai stir-fry one last time, taking in the crisp discs
The alarm went off at 3:00 AM and I stood sipping coffee in the cool back patio of my sister’s
I sit at the dark wood table, a good 20 feet from the kitchen watching my children crowd around their
“Why do people spit and throw trash on the road Amma? We should teach them not to.” “Why do they
“You have American friends! It is OK for Indians to be friends with Americans?” Pattu is at the kitchen island
“I am off to read my book…” She waves the book in her hand as I look quizically. My maternal
I watch Laddu toddle onto the driveway. The breeze lifts the hair off her neck. The exhilaration on her face
I put away clothes and tidy up the bedroom picking up stray doll parts and mini bags stuffed with blocks.
In the quickened steps as darkness falls. In the eyes that look downward rather than upfront. In the empty folder