What are words worth?

It's been raining through the afternoon and even now I can hear the wind rush through the streets as it makes its way to or from the sea, carrying with it the varying moods of the New England winter. My landlady, Vera, told me this old regional joke: "If you don't like the weather in New England, well--just wait a minute!" And each of us travelers must discover the import of that in the gloves and scarves we carry in our bags and refrain from discarding too early, or, for that matter, putting away our short sleeves and sandals before the leaves turn, just because the calendar has announced the advent of cooler weather. I've been packing all day--make that two "all days". Stuffing things I can't bear to leave behind and things that seem to have grown arms and legs and girth. Books that probably would have cost me less to buy on Amazon and delivered to India than to box and ship--clearly, sales at the Harvard Bookstore Warehouse do not carry a warni

I had walked down the passage many times, narrowly missing rushing students and their bulky backpacks as I dawdled, reading the notices pinned on the soft boards along its length or the announcements sliding across the display screens at every archway. It seemed to me like just another corridor where no one lingered, apart from under the tallness of the Great Dome at one end or midway down in the sudden, imposing expanse of Lobby 7 before it narrowed again to lead you decisively toward East Campus. So when students casually kept referring to "The Infinite" I had to ask, "But what is that?" It is--only somewhat fancifully--referred to as MIT's spinal cord, this 825-foot corridor that runs east to west through some of MIT's main buildings, passing by the administrative offices and student affairs and several departments and labs. Apart from the fact that it is among the longest (but considerably shorter than that of Freie University, says Wikipedia) uni

This morning I found on my Facebook wall a post by a friend, a photograph of a public art project along one of my hometown’s most popular promenades, Tank Bund: a large “Love Hyd” written in a combination of Devanagiri and English script. Earlier this year, some parts of Hyderabad city came alive with paint as artists from around the world reimagined broad swathes of street-facing walls and leaving passers-by a legacy of vivid images. Picture courtesy: Sadhana Ramchander I was sorry to have missed all that, but am looking forward to catching up with the new colour as I get back to my daily commute. The past few years have seen a renewed interest in public art, an acknowledgement that cities are spaces of life and experience, not just places for commerce. From locations as far apart as Taipei in Taiwan and Kobe in Japan and Long Beach in Hawaii, there have been attempts to revitalize city centers particularly in regions where a post-industrial economy has led to slow econo

I drink it all in greedily. The greens, the browns, the golds, the reds, and all those indescribable shades in between and beyond. And the blue, blue sky overhead. The nip in the air only serves to accentuate the sharpness of the colors, and adds a quickness to my step as I crunch across the leaf-strewn pathway of the arboretum. Arboretum: a place where trees and plants are grown to be studied or seen by the public (Merriam-Webster dictionary, online) I would amend that definition to include: a place that offers a sanctuary from the chaos and confusion and the intense pressure to achieve order that marks urban life. Of course, temples and spas also offer that. But you know what I mean. Chants and bells and low-key piped music and strange aromas do not quite match the abundance of the woods. Even if it is a cultivated copse ( not a typo, the r has no place in this wood/word ). I took a few hours off on what promised to be the last perfect day of the New England fall to find my

I’m not a voter in the United States, nor I am not a permanent resident. Yet I found myself caught up in the mania of the past several months and in the not-so-nail-biting finish in the early hours of Wednesday (Nov 9) morning. Now we’re all asking ourselves why and how no one saw it coming. Why the effects of income inequality and a certain kind of disenfranchisement or its perception—an even more invidious thing—could have escaped us, could have passed unseen by the mainstream media and the online echo chambers we find ourselves spending time in. So, back to that space between day and night on Wednesday. Even as I tried to sleep after the news of Florida broke, my daughter texted me from India, incredulous as she and my husband watched the result unfold in patches of red on television and laptop screen, augmented by the disbelief of commentators pointing at their magic screens. As for me, trying to get warm under a heavy quilt, my bleary eyes were locked on my phone, scrollin