Prose

Arrey, Do You Want To Be a Failure?

Night One: All test centers open at 7:45 a.m. and doors close at 8 a.m., unless otherwise noted on your admission ticket. You cannot be admitted once testing has started. The metal doors of the auditorium opened like the jaws of a beast, its four-walled stomach digesting the students trickling within. He was strangely dizzy. […]

Read more
Prose

The Grocery Bag: A Granddaughter Remembers

The rickety wooden gate opened slightly with the wind, like the consciousness of a half-asleep child. Daylight streamed through  almond leaves and dappled the broken pieces of gray sidewalk. There was the soft dripping of the monsoon’s last raindrops-a season’s final gift to a thousand dry rooftops. Birds shrieked, squirrels bickered, vendors haggled-and he watched, […]

Read more
Prose

What leadership means to me

“And I shall rule the world! The little girl breathlessly waved a purple scepter in the air, her plastic tiara dangling in between her flying braids. Little chunks of tanbark scattered in all directions as she stomped on the playground floor, the LEDs from her Sketchers Light-Ups flashing triumphantly. Her three friends, precariously perched upon […]

Read more
Articles

Rajneeshees: Their Oxymoronic Relationship With The American Identity

Carved into the 64,000 rugged acres of Wasco County is the Washington Family Ranch — a single-story Christian youth camp flanked by the eastern hill of Mt. Hood and the gurgling Columbia River. Complete with biblical workshops and dynamic worship activities, the recreation center fits like a puzzle piece into the rest of rural Oregon’s […]

Read more
Prose

The Lady Downstairs

Mr. Anand claimed that if the world grew quiet for even a single moment, we would hear the footsteps of the Great Mother. Ira, he called her. Ira Devi. But my thick New Yorker tongue, in all its nine years of inelegance, could never bring out the softened trill in ‘Ira’. We would try for […]

Read more
Poetry

OPEN

at the Chaat House on the end of South Avenue wedged between the Italian restaurant  and the slowly-dying bookstore, I stare  at the CLOSED sign’s obituary. the books groan against the window display, not loathed just unloved—but the Chaat House burns  with the struggle to live, the bruised walls blackened with the spidery handwriting  of […]

Read more