By Bikram Vohra
I wore a watch with a strap that had a nickel-plated latch and that irritated the skin on my wrist and caused an allergy. A pretty bad one. So, for several weeks now, I haven’t worn a watch. I tell the time by either pulling out my mobile phone or asking someone close by what the time is.
Continue reading An intellectual dissertation on not wearing a watch
By Anamika Chatterjee
Of all the blows Parasite delivers to its audience, the fiercest is a scene where a rich employer complains about the foul smell that comes from his driver’s body. Overhearing this, the driver sniffs his arms to understand if the stench is for real. Living in an underground shanty where intoxicated passersby unburden themselves, this stench is a reality of his world. To his employer, however, it defines his being.
By Delilah Rodrigues
The phone beeps. Alarms remind me of tasks I need to accomplish. Little yellow post-its stuck on the walls scream at me – buy veggies, do the laundry, finish editing, call the plumber, go to the gym. Just thinking about things I need to do makes me break into a sweat. My heart starts pounding. Just then, I hear the husband call out to me. Phew! it was just a dream, but a very sticky one I must say.
By Enid Parker
Being a wordsmith, and a bibliophile, I guess it’s not surprising to anyone that I own a lot of notebooks. But my myriad, ever-growing collection has a teeny-tiny problem. A lot of my notebooks remain empty, even after years.
By Enid Parker
As winter in the UAE picks up steam (what irony!), I think of paper boats and simpler times.
Last week, as I contemplated a heavily-flooded road from my balcony and wondered how I would make it to the metro station in order to get to work, memories of a similar scene from decades ago popped up — and made me smile.
Continue reading I’m singing in the Dubai rain… what a glorious feeling
By Purva Grover
The whiff of fresh oil paint draws me into the room. I spot a wooden jar holding a bunch of paintbrushes, as I lift a bottle of oil and declare to my husband that it’s baby oil. “To clean the brushes,” I say, flaunting my knowledge of the arts. A cat is meowing on a couch, resting behind a stack of canvases. The steam from the cup of coffee also suggests that the artist will be returning soon. Yet, I’m inside here taking my time to absorb in the aromas of artistic freedom. For two days, I’ve decided to forget the courtesies and invade the privacy of strangers; and my husband has reluctantly (initially) joined me in exploring Grožnjan, the unworldly sleepy town in Croatia’s Istria county. Just that this sleepy village is a real place, and not a utopian idea.
By Bikram Vohra
About a month ago a man brought his aging father to a charitable facility for senior citizens in New Delhi. He wished to admit his father and was ready to pay for it. It seems, he and his wife and kids were off to the USA and did not want to take the old man with them. The people’s home refused on the grounds that it was open only for those who were indigent and utterly without any support system. ‘If you can afford to migrate to the USA take him with you’.
Continue reading Hello Muddah, hello Faddah, keeping you is getting haddah
