Known Turf

I took the liberty of doing an Urdu translation of Manglesh Dabral's Hindi poem 'Prem karti stree'. It didn't take much tran...

Once upon a time, I was judgmental about selfies. From film stars to your third cousin, everyone was pouting, clicking, and uploading selfie...

I reviewed a new production of A Midsummer Night's Dream, which is still as much fun as it was four hundred years ago. It speaks to the ...

Eight years ago, I had my first essay accepted in the Griffith Review. ' Embodying Venus ' was a meditation on women's bodies an...

What a thing it is to discover a good book decades after it has been written! I wonder why nobody told me to read Sara Suleri's Meatless...

Squeeze your lids over your irises, until the inner mirror fogs over, and say the word ‘freedom’. What image do you see? I see a keen blue a...

 When I first began work on my own, as a freelance writer, I had decided to give myself permission to write in any genre, form or style with...

When the traffic light turned red, kids would dart up. Peering into the auto-rickshaw, tapping at the cab window, they offered a dozen roses...

Bread, Cement, Cactus: A memoir of belonging and dislocation  is available in the USA, UK and in India, in print as well as in ebook format....

I was interviewed recently by Saumya Kalia for Outlook magazine. One of the questions she put to me was taking off on something I said after...

From my essay on learning from the lockdown and the new normal, published in The Indian Express: In the new millennium, I saw new kinds of i...