Some numbers I want them to know: fifty—the age of the man they knocked over; fifteen—my age when I met him as a child bride; twenty-five—how many years I had been his wife; fifty thousand—the amount we had got for our farmland to pay for my sick parents’ hospital bills; two—bottles of rat poison we had bought to end our constant worries about work and money; one—the number of times I had been pregnant, and he had gone from the happiest to the saddest I had ever known.… More Published: The Waiting (Lunch Ticket Amuse-Bouche: Spotlight)
Ah! There is the Lucky Dip booth with Miss Dinshaw. A pack of fathers has surrounded her. Everyone is attracted to Miss Dinshaw because she has glassy skin that shines as if she has a light inside her, and she speaks the Queen’s English so propah, like no one else Mira has ever heard. Fathers leave mothers gossiping and drinking their Gold Spots, Mangolas and Energees together at the drinks booth and take their daughters to her. One more Dip, beta, then papa has no more money, they warn, while staring at Miss Dinshaw, whose complexion darkens as her inner light wanes under the sweltering attention.… More Published: Plinko Watch (The Indian Quarterly)
When it is all over, her family will come over from India. Parents and two sisters. Fractal images of your lover, they will tell you she had been a troubled child; you are not to feel responsible for what happened. You will not feel sorry for them because you will be too busy feeling sorry for yourself.
Her father will assess you from that distant, universal refuge: a watchful silence. His compact and swarthy frame will be so unlike Kay’s.… More Published: The Symphony of a Future Memory (York Literary Review)