Dheepa R. Maturi

Sue stood at our door, holding an odd-looking plant with a green stem and a dangling pod. "It's for Raj," she said brightly, extending it...

This morning, I was relieved to learn that my friends had marked themselves safe from Colorado's Marshall Fire. As the unthinkable slowly...

"Want me to read your palm?" On a sofa in a gloomy college lounge, my study partner Nancy immediately stuck out a hand to be examined by...

For thousands of years, householders have knelt at entryways and drawn a template of creation — using flour to feed that same creation.

I don't like what I'm hearing over Zoom, so I fiddle uncomfortably with my necklace, twisting it between my thumb and forefinger and...

I was always hesitant to wake her up. After all, she was a night owl — the kind that stayed awake long past midnight, every day. I'd look...

A baby macaque leaped onto a man's orange-robed shoulder and twittered to him animatedly. As I watched both monkey and monk, pink...

George Floyd's recent murder has sparked not only demonstrations, but also an explosion of poetry—written, spoken, shouted, screamed

Though our behavior has cracked these ideals profoundly, America doesn't have to shatter, nor does our love for her.

. . . an ancient knowingness — that the raising and launching of another human being is an awe-inspiriting act and responsibility.

While I'm terrified at the harm it is wreaking, it has also cleared away much of my internal noise and nonsense.

Did I need this traditional aspect of my culture to be re-packaged and re-gifted by the western world in order for me to accept it?

Composed of gleaming pearls and diamonds, it sits in my line of sight whenever I write at my desk. Each jewel represents a failure.

When my son was seven years old, he left me notes. They were scrawled on multi-colored Post-it notes that he sneaked out of my desk...

Those facts about Europe would have been accurate, yet I would have missed the truth.

I have both a heritage and a legacy. And I myself am the thread unfurling in both directions, connecting both.

To replicate the tradition, tourists on the island today write postcards to themselves and leave them in the box

a space for us to look at every bit of the life process, to stretch our minds to remember the ones who tend the earth

Why did I waste time banging on the door to my own integrity and knowingness when I held the key in my hand all the while?

A thousand tiny needles relentlessly pierced my skin over the course of what seemed like hours. After climbing back onto the Zodiac raft...