“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.” — Anaïs Nin
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It really is that damn phone
Three days after my grandmother passed away in her ancestral home in Bangalore, I stood in my kitchen six thousand miles away, looki
In the spring of 2021, like hundreds of other essayists and novelists, I moved a portion of my non-fiction writing onto one of the
There is a brief, tender interval of the day—perhaps sixty or seventy minutes long—where the rational architecture of the ego has not yet fully hardened i
The city outside is still shrouded in that heavy, pearl-gray Pacific fog that curls off the bay and blankets the Victorian
