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In a small flat in Pune, an aunt of mine keeps a pair of raw silk gloves folded inside a wooden box on her…
In my aunt's house in Pune, the first sound of morning was not the pressure cooker or the milkman calling from the gate. It…
The grass behind my aunt's house in Belgaum is cut short, almost like a cricket pitch, and in October it wakes up wet. Not…
Saturday afternoon in my Tamil neighbour's flat in Kyoto always carried the same smell. Warm coconut oil, faintly with curry leaves and a hint…
In my aunt's house in Lucknow, the small afternoon hour between three and four was sacred. The shutters were half-closed against the heat. A…
The Sufi master in my mother's old neighbourhood in Marrakech used to say that breath was the only currency that all humans were given…
In Calabria, the after-dinner walk is called the passeggiata. It begins shortly after the plates are cleared, often around eight in summer, and lasts…
My father kept a small notebook in the breast pocket of his shirt, the kind with a brown cloth cover and an elastic band.…
There is a passage in an old English diary, written before the railways changed everything, where a farmer describes waking around midnight, lying quietly…
In Tunis, my aunt kept a copper basin in the corner of her courtyard, beside a small ewer of water and a folded cotton…
In my grandmother's house in Kanazawa, there were no chairs. There was a low wooden table called a chabudai, a few cushions called zabuton,…
In my mother's village in Calabria, the kitchen lamps went out by seven. Dinner was eaten while the light was still in the sky,…
