Category: Identity
-
Whose Tongues Come First
A ParentSquare notification arrives in Tamil and the dropdown to switch is buried four screens down. An essay on mother tongue, colonial inheritance, and the joy of learning Korean in my fifties.
-
No Footnote Required
Nobody I know is redefining anything. They’re wearing what they’ve always wanted to wear. The kurta at the grocery store isn’t a statement. It’s getting dressed.
-
The Dropdown
The intake form asks me to select “Asian.” Tamil is a language, not a continent. A coastline. The smell of filter kaapi at five in the morning. None of that fits in a dropdown.
-
Half of Us
The survey landed in February. One thousand Indian Americans, asked to describe their lives in this country. The Carnegie Endowment published the numbers, and I read them the way I read most things about us: looking for the part they got wrong, and the part they got right. One in two reported experiencing discrimination in…
-
Notes From A Newly Minted Working Woman
I survey the place around me from my elevated perch. I am on the elliptical chanting Vishnu Sahasranamam while pushing my body to do more, to sweat more. Laddu walks down from the bed. Her hair is mussed, her face unwashed and sticky from sleep. She lazes on the sofa before me. The twins are…
-
Identity And Belonging
Two nights ago, I sat in a darkened room at my local library with a bunch of strangers watching a documentary on race. “I am or How Jack Became Black” by Eli Steele is one of those rare movies that catalyzes uncomfortable conversations. I stood by the small table I had set up with snacks…
-
Of Struggling With Labels
Collected in The Smudged Hyphen (2026). “I don’t like my fake name” muttered Ammu, my first daughter. I was bent over the stove tossing rice noodles in a base of lemon and sesame oil. The heady aroma of tempered mustard and curry leaves almost made me miss the statement. A part of me always attuned…
-
Recalibration
The morning stretches lazily like a ribbon or a band of elastic. The minutes inching their way slowly to the hour. Breakfast is over, Saathi is yet to return from his weekly tennis ritual. Laddu is content to sit beside me and hold my ear. The twins look mutinous because I told them they could…