This is the beginning of a story, very loosely based on real childhood experiences, that I had been kicking around in my head for many years before a writing class exercise four years ago demanded that I actually start to write it.
This is a poem that takes the memory of being allowed to sit in my father’s lap to steer our car for a few minutes on our way home from weekend trips to my grandparents’ house in landlocked Secunderabad and transposes it into a completely different fictional setting in Vizag.
This is the beginning of a story that I started two years ago and have not revisited since. Maybe I’ll finish it as originally intended someday. Maybe I’ll cop out and turn it into a scene within something larger.
This is a prose poem I wrote last year about a high school teacher who inspired the love of maps and geography on which I have built much of my career in tech so far.
Mr. Madani’s classes began in near silence. He walked in to our habitual singsong greeting, cutting it off midway…
This is a piece of fiction from a writing class exercise that I have no concrete plans for. The middle-of-sentence opening was a requirement of the exercise.
…and at other times, I succumb to the oddly complementary fears instilled in me by two religions — of karma and…