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“Poetry is a way of preserving the fleeting moments of life.” – Charles Simic I wrote this article while staring at a photo of my father kissing my mother. It is poetic in every sense I can imagine, and yet beyond even what I try to grasp or fathom. This captured moment unearthed words, both spoken and written, that illuminated the darkness of her dementia and lit up my world. For these words gave context to the unseen and unspoken. Such rare tenderness between my parents can

I live in a tier three city of a third world country. No, don't picture garbage and chaos. Udaipur, with its lakes, is comparatively beautiful. But like any other Indian city it cannot prevent its people from becoming a victim of a sick system they have to deal with for employment. There aren't many options. Between 2016 and 2019, juggling roles of a teacher, an accountant, and a wanna-be-writer, I decided to choose teaching as a career worth pursuing, for two obvious reasons

When the plumber ran his fingers over a crack on the wall, his eyes seemed to gleam with questions of competence, my competence. He looked at me, the crack and back at me. Alarm bells rang in the voice of my parents, teachers, neighbours and every other voice I knew from my childhood. And they all seemed to shout in unison- “are you good enough??” The implication being that I am not and never will be. I was back in school. It was sports day and home room teacher had pressured