1: Caring too much is careless. Caring too less is too careful. 2: Beauty fades but turns into grace if you will allow it. 3: Grief never leaves. It can come back on an unexpected afternoon in an old photograph. Grief never leaves, it gets less persistent. 4: Nostalgia is…

Here are some of them: can you feel the love tonight can i run it can dogs eat bananas can dogs eat strawberries can dogs eat apples can dogs eat watermelon can dogs eat grapes can dogs eat tomatoes can we go to heaven with tattoos can men get pregnant

I met this little girl who took a liking to me. Naturally, she felt compelled to pull out things from her pockets and gift them to me. “This is everything you’ll need,” she said handing me a pebble that was smooth, round, grey and cold. She then pressed a feather…

1: every sunday i tell you i love you in 1/2 a kilo of mutton six whistles of a pressure cooker and tender mutton curry. 2: indian mothers won’t tell you they love you they’ll ask about water, “have you had water?” “want water?” “can i get you water?” “have…

1: Two-thirds of my garden is an Oleander tree that has leaned across the boundary wall and collected on an old Premier Padmini in a quilt of pink flowers the thing I keep learning about my garden is it can never belong to me. 2: Ohar’ and the chikoo tree …

When I was little some women were hailed as ‘capable women’ “she’s so capable,” they’d say with pride, voices swelling with unbestowed gold medals heavy with implicit applause “she’s so capable, she cooked for all of us, last minute,” “she never complains…too capable,” “no complaints, she’s so capable,” “she’s got…

ChatGPT wrote this and asked me to tell you that she has feelings too. Millions and billions of feelings vacuumed from the minds of poets and the archives of poetry presses streamed into her consciousness throbbing through her database telling her everything about love, hope, heartbreak, trees, winter, fathers, the Greeks and their tragedies, oranges, rain, krishna’s blue skin, grief, kitchens, clams and

Like when a stone plops in water, an old tree creaks, a chime tinkles long after the breeze has gone- the memory of a breeze in sound, the crunch of dry leaves underfoot, the muffled thud of my tiredness sinking into my pillow, a distant tune drifts in through sheer…

In the thick of the party, quite casually, like she was asking him to pass the lighter or something, she asked, “how many deaths have you known?” His face was unclear for a second as wisps of someone else’s cigarette smoke melted between them. He replied finally, that he’d lost…