For those of us non-Indians living in Kerala, the following story sounds familiar because most of our friends and colleagues of the same age, and younger, as the writer share some similar story about their relationship to their mother tongue:
I’m at one of my favourite restaurants in Chicago, nearing the end of a long week which has been both more and less productive than I’d hoped for. I dragged myself here in an effort to finish a piece I’ve been working on forever.
The rain has kept most customers away, I’ve had the privilege of a large dining room to myself, and the television set directly above my head has been mercifully silent. Every now and then, people will come in and leave when they’re done. I’ve stayed on, nibbling at my chicken biryani and downing endless cups of tea as I lie hunched over in my corner. Continue reading



















