Her name is Haseena.

She's 80 years old, lost both her children in the earthquake twenty years ago. I met her at her kachcha home today. It's fifteen degrees out, she only has one kerosene lamp and four litres of fuel for it each month. Come, see my bungalow, she says.

While telling me her story, she fumbled around in the dark, looking for her daughter's photograph. She looked through all of her belongings (all four plastic bags of them) and finally found it. She told me about how nobody gives a shit about whether they live or die. Even their pension is eaten by the amir log.

Where's the bloody justice in the world.



my brain be like tch remembering passwords be for losers hahaha

(i hate it when i get locked out of my email account)


how to read an american cookbook

how was i to know
that nectarine means
summer, bright red, fresh;
that summer invokes warmth,
not searing, sweltering heat;
that when you said i
taste like nectarine jam
(your grandmother's recipe:
three parts sugar, half a cup of
lemon juice, no pectin needed),
it was seeped in nostalgia
for fruit trees and cousins?

nectar (n): food of the gods
brings to mind a story
about men fighting for
i think it's sweet with a
hint of cinnamon and chilli.
deep gold in colour (because
that's what amar chitra katha
makes me imagine, just like
it refused me the capacity
to imagine a god in that story
who transcends bodies: their shapes,
their meanings, their constraints).