When Stories Drop In

What Sunday Lunch Taught Me About Writing

I used to think my mother was terrible at meal planning. Every Sunday, she'd cook enough rajma chawal for maybe four people, then somehow manage to feed eight (and no, ‘rajma chawal’ isn’t ‘curry’. Every Indian dish is not a curry and there’s a post coming soon about this pet peeve of mine). The extra guests weren't invited - they just appeared, like characters in a story you hadn't planned to write.

Topics: Between Worlds, Writer in Residence, lifeinlondon

 

Grocery Shopping as Cultural Archaeology

Or: How I Learned That Seven Types of Hummus Is Apparently Normal

Topics: Between Worlds, Writer in Residence, lifeinlondon

 

The Theatre Revolution I Never Saw Coming

Or: How I Learned That “What Did You Think of the Second Act?” Is Actual Small Talk

Topics: Between Worlds, Writer in Residence, lifeinlondon

 

Animation: From Children's Treat to Universal Language

Or: How I Discovered That Adults Sobbing Over Animated Characters Is Considered Normal Behaviour

Topics: Between Worlds, Writer in Residence, lifeinlondon

 

Thames vs The Arabian Sea: Love Letters to Water

Or: How I Learned to Love Two Very Different Water Bodies

Topics: Between Worlds, Writer in Residence, lifeinlondon

 

The Geography of Missing: How Home Became Plural

Or: How I Learned That Homesickness Isn't Actually About Geography

Topics: Between Worlds, Writer in Residence, lifeinlondon

 

Publishing Culture: Books as Living, Breathing Entities

Or: How I Learned That Dog-Eared Pages Are Actually Love Letters

Topics: Between Worlds, Writer in Residence, lifeinlondon

The Silence Spectrum: From Mumbai Noise to London Hush

Topics: Between Worlds, Writer in Residence, lifeinlondon

The Bollywood Explanation Project

Topics: Between Worlds, Writer in Residence, lifeinlondon

The Weather Conversation Conspiracy

Or: How I Became That Person Who Photographs Clouds

I knew something had changed when I found myself in a deep conversation about clouds — with the postman. Neither of us had a meteorology degree. But there we were, earnestly dissecting the sky like it had just made a controversial political statement. That’s when I realised: I’ve been fully inducted into Britain’s unofficial national pastime — talking about the weather like it owes us rent.

Just last week, I caught myself saying — with actual emotion — “Shame about the grey rolling in after such a lovely morning.”I was talking to my husband, who looked up from stirring a pot of curry like I’d just delivered bad news from the bank. The skies had turned. And so, apparently, had I.

Topics: Between Worlds, Writer in Residence, lifeinlondon