The Yeast of Memory
The smell of rising dough is the smell of a house waking up. It is a thick, yeasty warmth that clings to the back of the throat, tasting faintly of salt and the patient, slow work of hands. I remember the way flour felt—a fine, cool powder…
The Dust of Joy
There is a particular hour in the afternoon when the air in the market stalls of Madhu Vihar seems to thicken, as if the city itself is exhaling the day’s accumulated heat and history. I often find myself wandering these narrow arteries in…
(c) Light & Composition UniversityThe Dust of Being Alive
When I was seven, my cousin Tunde and I spent an entire afternoon chasing the red clay dust kicked up by the neighborhood trucks. We didn't have toys, so we made them out of whatever the street offered—a discarded plastic bottle, a smooth…