Sara's Puny Fingers

I ride to the police station on my Vespa scooter, across the market streets bustling with rickshaws and motorcycles. Along the way, I swivel my neck to look at all… Read more »

It was the year Daddy went hunting. He returned with a fawn in the back of his rusty truck, a poppy-shaped wound in the brown-and-white-spotted body, inches above the front… Read more »

Yes, I went there—to her house. Couldn’t stop myself, having returned to the country, my country, after a decade. She introduced me as an old family friend to her husband—a… Read more »

I was born brown, as brown as the bark of the mango tree outside our house. I’d inherited Amma’s features—her round eyes and sharp nose—but not her wheat-colored skin tone…. Read more »

He adjusts his reading glasses on his nose as she places the Daily Dispatch on the table, and pours coffee from the carafe into her plain white cup and his… Read more »

It’s a Sunday. I’m collecting fallen gooseberries under the tall, shady tree outside our house. A rickshaw stops at the door. Safina Khala, my aunt—Ammi’s younger sister—steps out.  She’s wearing… Read more »

I did not combine melted butter and eggs in the medium mixing bowl or beat the mixture with the hand blender. Did not add organic flour and sugar, breaking the… Read more »

She climbed the wrought-iron ladder and pulled a suitcase from the loft, the large maroon one her mother had once filled with beads and frills and embroidered napkins for her… Read more »