City Street with A View
Who owns the city streets? The cars? The traffic cones? The cables? The sprawling stalls? The cows? The ditches? The bollards? Cities are unique in their context, and so are their streets. The strips of…
Who owns the city streets? The cars? The traffic cones? The cables? The sprawling stalls? The cows? The ditches? The bollards? Cities are unique in their context, and so are their streets. The strips of…
The fragrance of the jasmines in my mother’s gajra wisps between the lingering aroma of the tadka. The dosa crunches quietly under my fingertips…
Transitioning from spring to autumn in fifteen hours flat, neatly avoiding the heat, what’s not to love? Isn’t this what the birds and the rich do – fly off to cooler pastures during summer? So why does she have butterflies?
I was one of those children that collected small rocks that caught my eye, whether on the beach or along a country path. It could seem strange to have a sentimental attachment to a rock…
They fall from the sky, emerge from the ground, fly across your face, crawl up your back. Bugs that fly, flies that sit, spits the spittlebug, and thus comes spring! We live around them, and they live around us.
Grocery shopping is often a favorite example to explain Decision-Making theories as it lends itself rather aptly to their premise. The context – a sterile supermarket or a bustling local market?
Walking through the main hallway. This place is enormous. It is rush hour, and yet it looks deserted. People just vanish behind the sandstone pillars and paneled wooden doors that stand from floor to ceiling.
This is not a personal essay as there is no extraordinary story to share, crisis to resolve, or voice to be heard. Yet, it is about me – the person I fleetingly look at, mostly through the corner of my eyes, living her everyday.
This deceptively casual entertainment involves the complicated organization of the sounds and tracks to influence the mood inside…
Today while waiting at the station for the rain to stop, I got some freshly fried savories packed from one of the station shops. The swaying waft of that now, in the bag slung through the front handle of the bicycle,
