This year I tore off a page of my diary and set it off in a palenquin. A ride down a long-ago lane. From the diary of a remote Indian My first memory of the US is the strong fragrance of coffee at the Cincinnati airport. Excited and full of hope, I dreamed of making…

And so passes a doyen My grandmother, a feisty, petite, fair lady with black hair and green eyes lay down her life to a mixture of Alzheimer’s, paranoia and old age. A wife of a freedom fighter, amma had stood alongside her husband in his ahimsa struggle against the British rule. Post independence, she did…

So it was, After years of living in the US, I finally made it to a ball game, thanks to Tim. And wonderful seats way down near the field. Denver, the mile high city (Go Rockies!). There’s a line in the stadium marking this, to show you if you really are in the nose bleed…

So finally, I managed to wrangle out a trip to Bombay. Just Bombay, only Bombay. It was a call for a Mumbaikar. Walked several hours by the sea. Watched fisher folks bring in fresh catch in the morning. Papa and I peeked into the fisherwoman’s basket to see floundering seafish. Mmm. Living in the middle…