With the sizzling onions, crackling of mustard seeds, and Zakir Hussein’s tabla on the radio, tempering rain drops on the marble window sill would...
Rudra extracted a leaf from his pocket, rolled it and lighted it with a matchstick. He took a drag, covered my mouth with his, and released the smoke. That was my first kiss in the orphanage.
“Why stew?” I protested. “There are Mushrooms in the fridge!” “Mushrooms won’t do…with all the cough and cold going on, stew is what we need.” My mother-in-law said.