In the beginning was my name, and my name was with my great-great-grandfather, and the name was Imnamangyang Aier. Sometimes I cannot even say my name aloud without choking up because—and I am sure some of you will empathize with me when I say this—I am repulsed by it. Perhaps my grandmother was right in fearing that I could not bear the weight of my own name. As I shuttle around in the Hyderabad heat with my delivery packages in tow, my thoughts often travel towards a different permutation of my life if I had just been named differently. Tajungkaba would have been good; it had a nice ring to it—a no-nonsense SBI banker perhaps. Even Takosashi would have been acceptable—a genial shopkeeper in Dimapur with a smile that greeted Welcome, what would you like aunty? But sometimes the name Mhokuolie wafts into my ears and I find myself having…
“This is my story. In fact, this is our story, right?” “Right.” “Right.” Around six that evening, when the doorbell…
Mr. Max Madison was sixty-one years when he had that vicious thought. He wanted to open an account on social media. He had heard…
Cassey was pregnant. Nothing could make me more happy. She ambled proudly in front of me, showing her big white belly. She was always…
Here I am, standing in front of the law court to my dismay. Never in my life have I thought of defying the law…
Pa had worn that old gray coat until it was almost nothing but a rag that hung on his big frame. It smelled of…
Prisha arose from a tangle of sheets and placed her bare feet on the straw mat next to the bed. The early morning sunlight…
The Christmas tree still stood in the corner of the living room, its bulbs unlit and hanging from loops of green electrical cord among…
Aika sat beneath the blossoming boughs of a cherry tree catching falling petals in the palms of her outstretched hands. Her lips trembled as…
