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Kuppamma’s Story

Kuppamma’s Story

Same business, ayya, same business!” bemoaned Kuppamma to my friend (Ayya is a respectful form of address). A dark, stocky woman in her early sixties, Kuppamma spoke in a peculiar vernacular—a mixture of Chettinad Tamil (a dialect of Tamil) and broken English. As the...
A Flood Of Memories

A Flood Of Memories

Ever wondered why in India, of all places, every residential neighborhood is referred to as a colony? One would imagine that after a few centuries of foreign colonization with enough scars to last another few, India would banish the term. But no, instead a lot of us...
The Scars of History

The Scars of History

As a twenty-three year old Indian transplant in mid-nineties Atlanta, the one way I proved to visiting family and friends that I had “arrived” in America was to take them on what I had dubbed “Rajee’s  Weekend Tour of Atlanta.” Regardless of my visitors’ preferences,...
The Power of my 929

The Power of my 929

No sooner than he learned that I would be heading to Dayton, Ohio, for my first work assignment abroad, my father wasted no time in procuring a world map pronto, in trying to zero in on this unbeknownst, unsung place in the Mideast of the American Midwest. To his...
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