I have twisted ways of thinking.   I see fault in my husband’s thinking as if I knew better. Silencing him hurts me.   I interrupt my friend in mid-sentence as if I know what they’re going to say. Silencing them hurts me.   I talk out of order disturbing the peace of the assembly ...

Going to church every Sunday is another ritual Little Johnny enjoys. Grandpa and grandma are not regular church-goers. So, the neighbors offer to take Little Johnny to church with them every Sunday. The music and singing of hymns and songs enthrall Little Johnny. The two churches at the end of the street sit across from ...

“No, sir! No! No hanky-panky! I would have none of it! Married each one of them!” Thus proclaims Mildred Ruth Ralls, nursing her martini, her voice soft, firm, and reminiscent. Mildred and I are sitting at the kitchen table in the Naperville home. She has received a letter from her sister Elaine in California. Not ...

I can’t record audiobooks in this country because of my heavy accent.   When I audited for an organization I support, they said, “In America We employ American accents.”   I said, “I’m an American. My accent is American,” but they wouldn’t hear me.   I have such a lovely voice – Loud, Affirmative Expressive. ...

In a faraway land called Afghanistan, I hear her break his wine goblet, shattering the bowl to tiny bits. Bouncing, ricocheting off surfaces, broken pieces scatter to places unseen. He bellows, blames, name calls her. She screams back. Her voice, strong and bold echoes through the walls. Every crawling ant stops. He uses his hands ...

Although our home is small, the rooms are sizable and airy, with twelve-foot ceilings. Clerestory windows above doors increase natural light and air circulation. A long open south-facing verandah runs the entire width of the building. Sudhir and I spend most of our mornings and evenings here in the open. Another staircase leads to an ...

“But, Mummy, the old man says this is the strongest maanjha (kite-flying twine).” Mummy smiles at seven-year-old Sudhir’s words and shakes her head. Then with a frown, she repeats, “No, it is not. This is kacha dhaga (raggedy weak thread) quite useless. You better go return it.” And hands the spool back to Sudhir, who ...

Some mornings I wake up to a parade of memories—whiffs and tastes of childhood emerge from a dream and linger on vividly and wistfully. Moments ago, not quite awake, I savor the rich, warm buffalo milk in the kitchen of my early years. Then, in a flash, I am back in Mummy’s kitchen of long ...

She gave her birth, breathed life into her. Fed, caressed, soothed, punished. Comforted again. She got her to believe in all things unreal or what seemed real. But today, child’s grown enough to be self-reliant. She needs no womb, no feeds, nor caresses. Her own strength guides her, and she forms her own beliefs. Mother ...

Tulsi Bhua (aunt) is beside herself. She cannot find her Gangajali (a receptacle for holy water). Mummy is helping her search; it cannot just disappear. It is not a tiny thing that can fall through cracks. It is heavy, silvery, and shining, with a latched lid. And it holds the holy water from the river ...