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I’ve now moved my writing to a new residence: it’s called Halfway Home.
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Everything is a little more romantic in retrospect. They say when someone dies, people only say good things about them. Maybe our childhood is a little bit like that.
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“So your full name has two first names?” my Singaporean classmate asked when I introduced myself. I was 17 when I realised that having your father’s first name for your last name was something people could be surprised by.
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“Can I have a hair-tie?” was a familiar question that would follow a familiar knock. We’d lived with each other long enough to recognise our knocks, and know if the visitor had arrived for a loan or debt collection.
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Louis and I recently pondered over a glass of Bordeaux how the French got their reputation for being sort of, how you say, pretentious.
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They say there are 8 billion people in the world, give or take. Sometimes, it feels a little arbitrary. Like a child guessing how many beads are in a glass jar at a birthday party.
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Do you let someone trim them when they get too long but ask that they be careful not to cut it too short?
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Despite us being the same age, I would admire her from a distance. But with the kind of fragile, teenage admiration that could spoil easily and fester into envy.
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My grandmother’s best friend passed on yesterday. Leelammama personified the quintessential grandmother. The matriarchal, nurturing kind that you would cast in Malayali pickle commercials. She would have her white hair pulled back in a bun, dress in crisp white cotton sarees, wear gold bangles around her wrists and earrings that she never took off. She’d preside…
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Where can I find a feminism that suits me?
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Epiphany in the Cacophony 