I always loved the magnificent sights of the fall season in Ohio, how this season produced colorful leaves that eventually would fall to the ground. In the moonlight, I could see how it shaped the landscape of my street. I hooted with the owls and imagined my life in fast forward. I relaxed on my bed. I watched the darkness of my neighborhood from my bedroom window, and enjoyed the nightly breeze as it blew through the screen across my face. My mother’s 1979 Datsun Z sat each night on the curb at 58 Leaman Street. I could see the dents in the back finder under the streetlight. Mother drove the Datsun to work, the grocery store, and to the Round Table bar on Home Avenue each evening after work. Her driving skills suffered from an impatient, heavy right foot, and she often had accidents due to her frequent drinking. The dents in the fender came from backing into a truck in the parking lot of the Round Table. Continue reading →
By K. Singh
I was born in a country emancipated from slavery to the British, thirty-five years before my birth; the country’s concept of identity was already being questioned. I was birthed to a young woman, the age of eighteen. She was the daughter of an old film actress, popular in the 1940’s and perhaps 50’s—for our family, she will be popular for generations. My grandmother had a big hand in raising me while my mother went to college in her mid-twenties—herself coming first in academics throughout the Indian state of Maharashtra; a divorcé and a single mother in metro India during the 1980’s.
When I was born there was a celebration for me, and one hundred beggars were fed on the streets of Bombay—as today’s ‘Mumbai’ was called then. The hallway of the hospital was uproarious with my father and his friends drinking and celebrating while the hospital room was quiet with my mother and grandmother—the old actress—passed out in exhaustion.
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