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food

pass me a chomchom, or make it three.

no one other than my parents and grandparents perhaps loved me the way she did when i was two and three and four… traces of that love, that favouring, lingered well into my twenties and more. the last time i saw her i was around 38, and her eyes still rested on me gently. tubu mashi of no e-88, duliajan, our next door neighbour. who’d babysit me anytime, who would cry with me if i cried for my parents, who…

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sarees tell stories

if it’s gleaming like that, it must be a gadwal

gadwal. when i was too young to know anything about sarees other than all women – yes, it was practically all the women i knew or saw around me – wore them, that word always intrigued me. spending a lot of time in delhi while growing up, i was aware of garhwal, near the himalaya mountains in the north, a hilly place with lots of nice small towns and warmhearted people… many of whom came to delhi in search of…

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Espresso Shots

Rude Mr. Red

There once lived a rude man in a lovely cottage just outside of town. His name was Mr. Red. And he was very rude indeed. Early in the morning, when the helpful bird outside his window chirped, on the branch of a maple tree, Mr. Red slid open the glass and shouted, “That’s enough noise. Shoo!” The bird ruffled his beautiful blue feathers and flew to his flock. He said, “That man, Mr. Red, is so rude indeed.” Later in…

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