selected essays
WISH HAIR CREAM (LIT MAGAZINE)
“Hope that you are doing this right, that you are not one of those moms who can’t figure out her child’s biracial hair. Watch Youtube tutorials. Take notes. Accept that her appearance is a direct reflection of your care as a mother, even more than her intelligence or strength.”
Welcome to Cafe Mama (The Inquisitive Eater)
“Welcome to Cafe Mama, where the food is always lukewarm, the portions are either too large or too small, and meals are served on sticky plates shaped like panda bear heads.”
I Never Thought I’d Be A 40-Something Woman Freaking Out About A Doll But This One Is Different (Huffington Post)
“While Kavi isn’t the first or only Indian doll on the market, she represents a hyphenated experience so rarely captured in the mainstream. As first generation Indians and children of the diaspora like myself intermarry and have children with partners from other cultures and races, the nuances of identity become even more complex..”
I Felt Disconnected From The Election. Then Kamala Harris Entered The Race — And Part Of My Brain Woke Up. (Huffington Post)
“The reality is that there aren’t enough words to describe the multitude of mixed-race people. I hardly know what to call myself, let alone my kids. Are they Indo-Afro-Caribbean Americans? South Asian-Bahamian Americans? I’m waiting for the dated slurs and awkward hyphens to be replaced with a new language as dynamic as we need and deserve it to be. Until that time, I’ll take Harris.”
My Village Is Full of Young, Childless Women & I Wouldn’t Have It Any Other Way (Scary Mommy)
“Lately, I’ve realized that the friends I find easiest to talk to are like Keira — significantly younger than me and not mothers. At first I assumed I was more of a mentor. But as these relationships developed over time, I realized our age difference didn’t matter. Just because we weren’t sharing the same phase of life didn’t mean we couldn’t connect in real ways. And in fact, the distinction often allowed me to be more open about my experiences.”
swagger like us (mutha Magazine)
“Looking back, I wonder when and how I came to lose my swagger. Was it on the operating table, during my son’s emergency c-section, or was the last of it pushed out with my daughter, four and a half years later? Did it drip away slowly, every time I breastfed? Did the levels decline with every sleepless night? I was too busy keeping humans alive to notice when it happened, let alone try to get it back.”
My family made up its own perfect curse word (Scary Mommy)
“Skarmoosh was the work-around that actually stuck. It made my kids giggle, and it allowed me to blow off steam. We could say it in public without offending anyone, yet we all knew what it meant. Not only was customizing a curse word a handy way to avoid real curse words, it was weirdly bonding, creating a shared language within our family.”
Screw It. Eat Ice Cream Every Day (Scary Mommy)
“My son’s food allergies turned special occasions into a field of culinary landmines. He spent every party and family get-together eating a separate meal I packed for him, unable to participate fully in a communal experience. I made sure he was full and safe, but I couldn't protect him from feeling like an outsider.
the coconut pie that stole thanksgiving (the dirty spoon)
““The coconut pie transported the whole table to the islands, and everyone – even my own mother – agreed it was the best pie they had ever tasted. As I listened to their praise, I tried to hide my embarrassment by having a slice. But each bite lodged in my throat. My ego was too bruised to enjoy its creamy texture, and the sweet-but-not-too-sweet, coconut-rich flavor..”
I am not an Italian Grandmother (Potluck Zine)
“Like my imposter sauce, the question of authenticity has loomed throughout my life. For years, whenever someone asked where I was from, I took a deep breath and gave a history lesson. I shared my story of diaspora with every taxi driver, cashier, and waiter, every teacher, classmate, and colleague. Each time, I watched their faces fall.”
summer at nrityagram village (Travelers tales)
“Alongside the discomfort, there were also moments of wonder. After a good soak, the colors of the landscape were especially saturated, like a filter on a photo. The red earth became rich and luminous, and the green leaves were almost electric. Snails and worms slithered on the wet stone, and the air was clean and cool. I relished those technicolor views, so different from the muted gray of the city I called home.”
Instructions for a name (Hammock magazine)
“My name is Sumitra, which sounds similar to Sumatra, the Indonesian island known for coffee beans, but different. The “i” should be a short sound, though most Americans make it an “ee.” Su-mee-tra, rather than Su-mit-ra. I remember being too shy to correct my teachers’ mispronunciation in kindergarten. My kid brain thought: well, this is who I am now. The confusion has followed me through four decades, although now I am more quick to address it.”
Her Boobs, My Boobs (Funny Women)
“Soon, I was eating pasta alfredo with the babysitter’s boobs. I had only just stopped nursing my baby daughter, and my own boobs were small and slack in a bra that had been washed so many times, I couldn’t tell what size it was.”
Epiphany in the Shoe Department (Foyer Magazine)
“Part of me is embarrassed to complain about my life, abundant with a family, career and home. But it’s also a relief to be honest. With colleagues and mom friends, I curate the details, careful to hide the ragged notes in my voice. With Dr. Badlani, I whine, wallow and flail, a weary beast stalking the aisles of luxury goods..”
murder she wrote (hammock Magazine)
“Growing up, Priya and I had played many characters on stage - goddess Kali chasing down demons, elephant-headed Ganesha gobbling ladoos and Lord Rama, effortlessly breaking Shiva’s bow. But no role was as confusing or complex as the part of an unmarried Indian-American woman.”
In My Silken Armor (KajAl Magazine)
Everything about this art form was foreign to me – the rhythms of Carnatic music, the Sanskrit verses Sudha Aunty patiently translated, the complex coordination of facial expressions, hand gestures, and footwork. Inexplicably, I hungered for this knowledge.”
buoyant force (mutha magazine)
“I learned how to swim when my son, Miles, was a toddler, as a way back into my body and out of the hole, as I called it, the dark, sunken place that was becoming my emotional baseline. Everyone promised “it would get better” when the baby turned one. Patiently, I waited to feel like my old self. I waited for the anxiety to subside and the heaviness to lift. Months became years, and Miles was walking and talking, a curious and energetic child. He was thriving, but I was stuck..”
What I Learned From Accidentally Poisoning My Son With A Hamburger Bun (mutha magazine)
“Like any parent in the Covid-era, my sanity was frayed…I was still adjusting to the commute, and the reality of having to put on complete outfits every morning. Working from home, I took walks on my lunch break and even managed to exercise a few times a week. Now, those small acts of self-care were a distant memory. Over-extended and multi-tasking, I clicked on the wrong hamburger buns on my grocery delivery app—an easy misstep with brutal consequences..”