My Perfect Family

Amit Ahluwalia + Me = 5kids
Simranjeet
Tarsempal
Gursharan
Harvinder
Ishpreet



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I Used To Be Darker: INTRODUCTION OF POLITICO

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Ertika, Pahel. "I used to be darker, see. Do you see, Ertika? Then, I started staying indoors and reading about the Party. Kauben Wrinfida says I look much better. She says the Party really is doing me good." Ertika yawns absentmindedly. She feels vaguely disturbed by her friend's words, like something inside her is dislodged a little but she cannot reach inside her heart and place exactly what is wrong. "I really liked your colour, Pahel. You looked like my mother when she was younger and everyone said she was pretty." Pahel squirms at the compliment, both pleased and annoyed. She has always been slightly under the shadow of Ertika's goodness, Ertika's selflessness, Ertika's studiousness without her even trying. She hates the thought that Ertika is so politically correct without even meaning to be. She, the child of exiled rightists, she must try so hard to erase her father and mother's harmful legacy and prove her devotion to the Pa...
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Dude. I can't.

Dude, I can't, I thought to myself, Pulling my history textbook from a shelf. Dude, I can't, Take how everyone here is obsessed with being a prefect, The ties they wear around their neck and sins they collect, In their small books and in their dusty cranny and nooks, DUDE, I just CAN'T, Take how every book I read is scrutinised and picked apart, Pushed and pulled in directions, I'm called an upstart For being 'outspoken' in the words of a Fish, Who was half-Scandy and half Miss. Dude, I can't, I screamed at my table, Help but wonder why everyone is able To do things I can't really think of doing, Multitude of ideas in my head brewing, Dude, I can't, I whisper to my enemy, Did you hear, Elisa built anemone! Dude, I can't, It's a reef, she whispers, Quieting my minor-mass hysteria... Dude, I can't, Really stand how everyone would kill to go to LSE, When they insult Warwick, and praise to no end, Berkeley. Dude, I c...
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Written in Mist: Speaking of Safer Things

She rolled the cigarette between two calloused fingers, savouring the feel. A wisp of smoke from between her chapped lips floated into the air, a silent song of something. 'Vol vol vol.' Indila's 'Derniere Danse' played in the cafe elsewhere, the melancholy song filling her ears and slowly falling into her. This is France, she thought to herself, a twenty five year old Malaysian immigrant with a baggage of hyphenated identities sitting in an isolated French cafe smoking a Chinese cigarette listening to a French-Algerian-Cambodian-Egyptian-Indian singer. As Indila works herself into a beautiful tragedy, she puts her head in her hands then takes a drag of her cigarette. There is a certain delicious irony in that ,she feels, especially with the rise of the National Front in France, people looking at her funny because of her name, the fact that she doesn't go to Church, mostly reads East Asian philosophers instead of Satre, eats neither pork nor beef, has a ...
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