It’s an early Saturday morning. I sit alone in a mall in a far flung part of town. The mannequins

The trees lining Marine Drive promenade are survivors. Some of them are Banyans, others the ubiquitous Badams and coconuts and still others I have yet to identify. The ones with the headily fragrant silky blooms – silk cotton?
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200 rainless days in the city I still call home. A friend writes these words to me. What does it

Vengsarkar and Gavaskar out in the middle. Sunny is plodding along, tapping the ball tentatively, prodding it, questioning his technique.

Bright clean cream. Shiny sharp silver. A rainbow of cotton. A heron’s head. A black nib and counting skills. Hieroglyphics

Back at the Waudby Road signal this morning. A truly beat up tempo in front of me. No roof. Just

(Written in early May 2019) It promises to be a cruel summer. The birds have fallen silent today. I too

The cyclone passed by the city a few minutes ago. It is expected to make landfall further up west tomorrow.

These are the men who come to my door almost every day. They call me Madam, Bhabhi, Didi. Most smile

And suddenly this morning, a lowering sky. The clouds scudding in from the ocean are gun metal grey. Early morning