My mother and I lived under the same roof after two decades and clashed, as mothers and daughters do, about “settling down”. All that changed when I got a renal tumour.
The first Indian to win a gold at Rio in 2016 was R Hepsibah, a street child from Chennai. There were no coaches for this child prodigy. Instead, she got her start running away from cops.
In Chennai, I have to pay 200 rupees at a posh café, every time I want to smoke a 16-rupee cigarette. Not that chauvinism doesn’t exist in other Indian cities, but it is especially pronounced in my home city.
Malgudi might have been a made-up Tamil town of the 1940s, supposedly located near colonial Madras. But its realism came from slice-of-life tales about a community that, however far removed from me in space and time, felt like home.
To become India’s first transgender police officer, K Prithika Yashini had to pass a tough exam – that of ascertaining and sticking with her gender identity.
Manto’s stories can broadly be divided into two sections: the ones about Partition, and the ones about Mumbai. The latter are the ones I admire the most, when he wrote about the dingy alleys of the city, where prostitutes, pimps, and decent men met, their dreams and desires in tow and humanity intact.