When I look back at the pictures my family took when I was a child, I can remember everything about that exact time and what was happening the moment the camera clicked. My favorite one is a picture of my cousin Kenia and I, just sitting on the bus. When you look at it, you
She was an Indian-American growing up on a block in Bayside, Queens that resembled Sesame Street. Only instead of muppets, she had imaginary friends that kept her company while she played in the dark, cavernous basement of her family home. To the left of her house were the Ongs, who gifted her family a box
Perhaps it’s the natural instinct of an immigrant to want to make the new country his home. Yet he continues to fail with every attempt because the birth country cannot truly be replaced. The definition of home becomes diffused, molded, and adjusted as time moves forward and the immigrant grows in his or her new
People invariably comment on how charming my father is upon meeting him. This is true. The man is a dynamo with a booming voice and tendency to spin almost anything into a positive. You know the hesitation and last-minute rehearsing that goes on prior to introducing yourself to a stranger? He’s not like that. When
I recently learnt that my mother’s ancestral home outside Kolkata, sold off about 15 years ago to pay outstanding debts, is haunted. And not just by anyone, but the ghost of my grandfather, who passed away in the late 80’s. Apparently the sprawling expanse of Bandal House as it’s called, three stories high, winding corridors
