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On Becoming a Writer
From the treadmill call that started Why Is My Hair Curly? to the week before Why Is My Skin Brown? launches: on writing from memory, writing toward hope, and the label she finally let herself claim.
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The Twain Shall Meet
Pattu plonks down on the reading cushion I have, conveniently next to a charger, phone already plugged in. Felix whines from the next room. “Ondaa…” Pattu’s instinctive response surprises me. Unless you grew up hearing it, you are not reading it with the tenderness it carries. Ammu shows up every day, 2:00 pm, a grin…
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Who Should Tell These Stories?
We inch our way through the dark aisles of the Movie Tavern, navigating to our assigned seats. This is one of the newer chains near Philadelphia, complete with plush reclining seats and food that is brought to us. My husband, youngest daughter, me, my twins next to each other. We munch on popcorn and sip…
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I Am Really Good At Losing People
When I was little, I lost people because I moved. I moved because my parents moved. Each year, I would start at a new place, a new school, new friends. I became adept at merging, adapting and being a wallflower. I reveled in how well I could be invisible. It was my superpower. Somewhere around…
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Just Adopt!
“I’ve always wanted to adopt,” says my friend, a faraway look in her eyes as if there exists an alternate universe she is privy to that lets her play out her fantasies. My immediate response is indignation. “You have no clue what it is like,” I want to shout. Instead I nod my head and…
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American-Indian, Indian-American
Collected in The Smudged Hyphen (2026). American by birth, Indian by virtue of being raised by us, the hyphen may define my twins more than either of the terms throughout their lives. “Scarlett eats meat!” M’s eyes are round, her tone incredulous. Before I can respond she adds, “We are vegetarian. We do not eat…
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Same, But Different
“I want to color my hair blue too!” My youngest, all of six years, holds my hand and swings as she walks. One of her older sisters walks a little ahead of us. We are on our daily evening stroll around our development. The sun has not yet set, bathing us all in a golden…
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Seeing Themselves: On Diversity in Children’s Books
Collected in The Smudged Hyphen (2026). “That is not cha-na, its chhan-na.” My 11-year-old daughter born and raised in America corrects the white traveler on television sampling street food somewhere in northern India. Our family is of Indian origin. We speak Tamil and English at home sprinkled liberally with words from Hindi that have made…
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My Motherhood, Explained
I notice the family at the table we cross to get to ours. I notice them because they turn in unison looking us up and down, right to left and back. I notice them as they try to reconcile the story of us, the story of me. I hold her eyes, just a smidge before…
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Hands of Fate
I stepped off the plane into the chill, dry air of New Mexico, eight hours after we left that morning. Even as my husband and I made our way to baggage claim, my eyes scanned through the unread text messages and email messages from Amy. “Call me.” The message was cryptic and I felt a…