Poetry & Reflections

My Sons. I failed you. By pushing you away when all you needed was an embrace...

My father carries the scent of Punjabi rain in the folds of his wool coat, a map drawn in the geography of longing...

I stand in the doorway of two worlds, where the air tastes of cardamom tea and diner coffee...

My mother’s hands tell the story of hours counted in fluorescence, of assembly lines and ledger sheets...

Memory is a slow afternoon drenched in the heat of a distant summer. I hear the laughter of aunts I barely know...