I had just signed the lease on my apartment. I was an adult now. Naturally, I did what every reasonable adult would do. I climbed the Rocky steps, sat on the topmost stair, and cried. That August afternoon was hot. People on the steps would have mistaken my tears for sweat. Fortunately, my emotions evaporated … Continue reading Of steps and story slams: Rebirths, Returns, and Comebacks Story Slam at Wolf Humanities Center
Quando sono stato in Firenze, era una programme della cultura chiamata “Firenze porte aperte.” In the evenings, the museums would open their doors for free. Roaming the Uffizi at night while Andrea Boccelli sang in the courtyard of the Palazzo Vecchio is an exquisite memory of my time in Italy. You have returned that memory to me and opened a door. For that, I thank you. Grazie mille.
As I watched the Write India video the other day, I teared up and realized I wanted to tell the stories of my stories, the lessons I learned, and express my gratitude for the Write India program.
I stand in front of Diana's bench. It's my bench now. I'm a Diana, too. Not the Diana, of course, but that's my name nonetheless. For me, this monument to love resembles nothing of the kind. It's just a pile of rocks, crumbling after centuries of abuse and neglect.
Usha pushed herself up. Pain weighed down her limbs as she switched off the fan. She went over to the dining room table and collapsed into a chair. Her shoulders heaved as silent sobs escaped her lips. She rose from the chair and moved it under the fan. She climbed onto the chair and draped the dupatta over the fan's stainless steel blades. As she readied to tie the dupatta around her neck, the fan switched on. The dupatta flew out of her hand and on to the floor.
Facebook has just reminded me that I started this blog one year ago today. Yah! That's something to celebrate.
The doctor enters. I know what he’s going to say. He’s said it before. My hearts can’t take much more. My blood work matches perfectly to a girl my own age. I feign sleep. Maybe he won’t bother me. He doesn’t. He and my mother talk in hushed tones. Their words grow fainter as the blood throbs faster through my body. The sound has reached my ears now. Their voices become just mumbles. My eardrums thud with the pain of the increased blood flow. I have made my decision, yet still feel at war with myself somehow. Lub, dub. Lub, dub.
"Nothing means more to me than you, beta. Nothing. It was worth the sacrifice to keep a roof over our heads. Besides, you have a good job now. Soon, all our problems will be solved.” Tears welled in Ranbir’s eyes. He rose to comfort his mother and started to touch her feet. She smiled and bent as if to stop him. “Beta, why the formality?” “I’m just so grateful for all the sacrifices you and papa have made for me. I love you, maa.” Ranbir kissed his mother goodbye.
When the #DeadAdityaKapoor hashtag goes viral, Maya Kapoor races toward Lilavati Hospital--and her husband. But, a monsoon downpour threatens to stop her. Will she reach in time to say goodbye to Aditya? Inspired by Ravi Subramanian's Write India passage, The Hashtag wrestles with the real emotional toll of virtual rumors.
“These wounds look self-inflicted,” said the nurse pointing to the bandage on Divya’s left wrist. “Is it about a boyfriend, dear?” “No, ma’am.” “A half-boyfriend then? I hear the girls have those now.” Divya hated this line of questioning. Why did it always have to be about a boy?