The diyas know their purpose without instruction—
place them at the threshold and they light,
their small, specific, oil-fed determination
holding back the generous October night.
Diwali is not just light against the darkness—
it is the choosing of the...
Holi is the color thrown without permission—
the blue that finds the white, the red that claims the air,
the permission to be joyful past the usual—
to love out loud, to laugh beyond the care.
The color says: today...
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The old house has a smell that follows me—
into every house I have lived in since,
a ghost of wood and particular light
and the quality of every old offense
and kindness—the arguments held in the kitchen,
the laughter...
There was a territory I have not returned to—
the specific geography of a grandmother's lap,
the warmth of it, the smell of it, the telling
of the story that began with once-upon-a and never had a gap.
She is...
We scattered in the years after—
some north, some south, some simply deep into their lives—
and the geography we shared in school
became the country of the archive and the drives
of memory. The faces are still precise—
I...
The old bicycle rusts in the corner of the shed—
wheels still true, the bell still workable—
a machine that carried me through the whole kingdom
of the neighborhood, before the maps were observable.
I knew every house by its...
There was a time before the phone was everything—
before the pocket held the whole world's noise—
when boredom was a country you visited sometimes
and the silence was among the season's joys.
We showed up at each other's houses...
The village summer had its own specific cool—
the well water that was never warm,
the afternoon that slept through the worst of it,
the mango tree that held us through the storm.
The elders on the charpai in the...
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