I shut the door to my room, switch off the wifi on my laptop and turn my phone to aeroplane mode. I set the timer and open my laptop for some focussed writing time. Barely 30 seconds in, H pushes open my door. ‘Can I eat?’ he asks.
A gentle breeze ruffles my hair as I sit on a small cement platform in the grounds of my apartment complex. I watch N jogging, headphones in place her ponytail swinging from side to side. It’s 10pm and we’re the only two people around. It’s quiet, apart from a few sounds that drift down from …
A blue polka dotted balloon drifts down into the balcony as the kids and I sit navigating our way through the digestive system. Class tests are on and the three of us seem like we’re enclosed in a cocoon, shielded off from the outside world, lost in the universe of books and notes and unyielding …
It’s after 10 pm. The children have finally settled down in their rooms wrapping up their studies, their TV time and their million arguments. I open my book for few minutes of reading before I turn in for the day. The phone pings. I glance at it and find a message from my sister-in-law, S. …
I don’t want to wear formals, announces H. That’s how most of our festive days begin. We have this tussle each year, at every festival. I’ve been giving in to him slowly but surely, bending to his will, letting him have his way. We moved from Kurta pajamas, to short kurtas and trousers and then …
