The street she lived in was always bestirred. From the crisp morning that'd have skies slashed with delicate, lethargic strays of golden hues to the night that'd have all the stray cows, and calves huddled in front of the ...Read Morevegetable shop, awaiting their daily dose of remnant withering greens, leaves, and vegetables just before they closed it; South Street was always bestirred. With a humble wedding hall right next to the vegetable shop that stood in the entrance of the street, followed by a chain of amenities like a cramped grocery store, a tailoring shop, and a house turned Read Less

Her house was an intimate one, with a walkway that had a monstrously branched Mango tree on the left, followed by a thorny, lime tree, and an assorted array of shrubs like a Crimson rose shrub, aloe vera, and ...Read Morejasmine on the right. An uncompromising vine of pink Bougainvillea had crept up her compound wall, embellishing a neat, stubborn frame over her short, iron gates, and had carpeted the stretch of narrow walkway with its pink petals. She exited her house, clad in a pair of blue jeans and a matching maroon collared tee shirt. Her bag was strapped Read Less

Rumi got down from the suburban train, squeezing herself out of the jam packed ladies' compartment. She was dressed in her habitual pair of jeans, and a sunshine yellow t-shirt that was stained with splotches of fluid from the ...Read Morework. She brushed a thick lock of hair that fell on her face, fluttering out of stretch band that gathered her shoulder-length hair in a careless bun. Twisting her arm, she hoped for her eversilver water bottle from the bottle holder of her backpack. As the sparse remnant of cold water streamed down her throat, she admonished herself for not Read Less

Adhithan's kitchen had a fairish sized poster of Chef Anthony Bourdain's quote. It was a blown-up, black and white picture of Anthony Bourdain, with the text, 'When someone cooks for you, they are saying something. They are telling you ...Read Morethemselves: where they come from, who they are, what makes them happy.' written on it, brightly, and in a slightly, scattered handwriting. Amrutha's shoulder crashed on the crooked doorway of Adhithan's well-kept kitchen, her eyes steadily shifted over to her brother's back, who was cooling her dose offilter coffeeand pouring it in the cerulean blue, handbuilt, ceramic mug that she'd Read Less

It was a Saturday morning, and Rumi was at her clinic attending her newest patient. Just fifteen minutes into unlocking the sliding doors of her petty, scanty entranced clinic, a tall, gangly tween had shuffled in. His t-shirt was ...Read Morebaggy, hair ruffled from the moistureless, scorching Madras air, and face, damp from the unsparing perspiration. Cautious in not disturbing the thick paper box in his hands, he brushed his sweaty face on the sleeves of his t-shirt, advancing to Rumi's table. As Rumi watched him attentively pushing her glasses up her nose, he held out the box with a Read Less