translation

Hotchpotch & other poems

Bombay Literary Magazine

Duck meets porcupine (grammar we heed not),
See, there’s Porcu-duck! Say why, we know not.
Stork tells turtle, ‘Sir-ee, what a hoot!
Our Stortle statue is gloriously good!’
Parrot-faced gecko’s seized by the shivers—
There goes his bug diet, time for green peppers!
Who knows what ghost possessed poor goat,
He’s mounted centipede, they’ve joined at the throat.
Giraffe’s lost her will to roam the dry earth—
She soars part-dragonfly despite her girth.

short story

Sisterbrother

Kweli

Late one night, on her way to the bathroom, Didibhai fell down the stairs of the house she had inhabited for close to sixty years. A sudden tumble. Her body sprang forward, the staircase blurred to teeth. Da-dump ta-tump thump. Down in the landing, she crashed into something. A flowerpot? A vase? Too dark to tell. A burst of sound went skittering, and her first hefty thought was, Oh no, I hope I didn’t break it!

There she lay, cheek to the floor, worrying about it. Not her hip, or her shoulder, or her knees, but an object external to her person. Something that didn’t belong to her. Something of value.

poem

The Likely Histories of Paul & Paige

Northwest Review 🔓 paywall

Today, on this slippery mountain
people will look at us
and be reminded of a Bollywood movie
they were forced to sit through
on a flight / to save a friendship—
they will relive
the saccharine revulsion of witnessing
immigrant newlyweds holding hands.
In us, they’ll see a woman floundering on uneven stone
a man holding her hand, grasping it
like the rudder of a boat that his parents bought him

novel excerpt

Animal Behavior

The Johannesburg Review Of Books

In the beginning, I’m stepping off a plane, hobbling on scrunched-up legs toward the arrivals hall of Hendrik Van Eck Airport. Twilight has washed the tarmac purple. A breeze moves in from the lowveld. The scents of a great many trees. The date is May 29. The year is 2010. It is the first day of my new job.

At my back, a year-long tryst with unemployment, the soupy remains of my college education gathering in my parents’ basement in Princeton, New Jersey, along with the rest of my things: my piles of books approaching the slit of the hopper window; my gym shorts shed like snakeskin on the carpet; suitcases lying unpacked; and, on the nightstand, a succulent with a lone purple leaf.

essay

Frequently Asked Questions

Wilderness House Literary Review

Day 1. Why am I leaving?

It is summer in the high country, and the air is charged with dandelions and smoke. Snow lingers on the highest peaks. Horseflies gather to drink my blood. I am moving quickly, too quickly, away from a life that was perfectly good. Perhaps I am escaping tedium, predictability. I tell myself there is a flight to catch, an apartment to fill with new essentials. The mockingbird outside my window in Oakland learns new songs each year. Perhaps I want to learn new songs too.