The Bangalore Review

When we packed our things from paint-chipped cupboards, and made peace with stains of wine on the carpet- too permanent to move out with us;..

quiet & beloved memory—serpent swallowing mouse wholea vibration of the tail—warning of appetiteI collect your worst flaws in a jar, colorfulI taste them—candy, I loathe..

The Sukshma Series is a first-hand account of an educated woman of post-colonial India reflecting on how the social and political set-up of the country defined the status of an Indian woman.

Not far from near future, we bendlight around corners. Down periscope.Up and away from you all.  Take me at my word: they’ve outlawed affection.We lock in,..

You and I flush it down the toilet many times a dayBut it crawls out wrecking our just-mopped floors.Reeking. ‘Bloody hell!’, we shout in lingua..

Van Gogh stops byIn my garden.  Death feels chilly so he wants a morning back on Earth. I told him I admired his iris paintings.  He thanked me, didn’t..

Headless martyrs are riding caribou intothe international forest again. Fairies sippingnectar from hyacinths chuckle at this scene. They remember why bushmen lick beehiveswith honey-coated tongues..

draw a bath.with crayons?how does one color water? clear does not do justice,the glisten of droplets on skin.I’ll draw us a bath, you said, and I sawan..

The Sukshma Series is a first-hand account of an educated woman of post-colonial India reflecting on how the social and political set-up of the country defined the status of an Indian woman.

Words leap over words Trounce each other Silence survives. Time runs over time Flatten each other Memory survives. Pages pile over pages Bury each other..

There is a sunflower erupting through the simian crease of my right palm. I shed layer after layer of salty skin till the petals glow..

Some trees are male, some female; Our house had four of them, And though I circled them every day as a kid— Looking for any..

1. A man reads the newspaper as if his son would turn up on page three. The chaiwallah makes a cutting, not because a half..

As far as I can see, the trees brown beneath fall’s frost. Mother’s skin is marred by age spots as death’s knell calls frost. Forests..