A for Alien an online reading by Luna Ranjit November 30, 2021 8:30pm EST Please __**click here ** __to RSVP & get event link This event is made possible (in part) by the Queens Council on the Arts with public funds from the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs in partnership with the City Council.
inside, the family of three start/ their annual rain dance of/ carefully choreographed steps
Caste-based discrimination is in news once again in Kathmandu, propelled by the rare courage shown by Rupa Sunar to not quietly accept the fact that an “upper caste” family in Kathmandu refused to rent her rooms just based on her caste.
not interested in feminism/ seeped in racist thought/ nor to fight for women’s rights/ to become a corporate bot
I can tell my immigration story two different ways. One, I came here with $200 and two suitcases holding almost all of my worldly possessions. Two, I came here with a full scholarship to a rich liberal arts college. Both are true, and have shaped who I am and the way I view the world.
In the cool morning of November 8, 2016, I stood in line at the Joseph Pulitzer Intermediate School 145 in Jackson Heights, Queens, New York to cast the very first ballot of my life. I carefully filled out the bubbles on the ballot, thinking about my father.
कान्तिपुर टेलिभिजनमा हाल १२ एपिसोडको छोटो शृंखला “जातको प्रश्न” प्रसारण भैरहेको छ। शायद महानायकको रुपमा चिनिने राजेश हमाल प्रस्तोता रहेको कारणले पनि होला यो कार्यक्रम धेरै दर्शकहरु माझ पुग्न सफल भएको छ। लाखौँ मान्छेले हरेक हप्ता नबिराई हेरेर जातको बिषयमा छलफल नेपालभरी र नेपाली आप्रवासी भएका सबै ठाउँमा पुगेको छ।
“महिनावारी भनेको गर्भ रहन नसकेको डिम्बको आँसु हो” — केटाकेटी हुँदा रेडियोमा सुनेको यो वाक्य म अझै भुल्न सक्दिन। सानोमा त यसलाई नै सत्य मानियो। तर पछि प्रश्न उठ्न थाल्यो — के महिलाको जीवनको अस्तित्व गर्भाशयमा अडिएको छ? के गर्भवती हुन नसक्ने वा गर्भाशय नै नभएका महिला नै होइनन्?
First published in Newtown Literary, Issue 16 (Spring/Summer 2020). Go. Back. Home. three small words pierced the mundane Tuesday grocery run even though across the street was, had been for a dozen years, my only home.
I would have stayed on the phone forever if I had known the next call across the ocean would come carrying a message and punch a hole in my heart where things fall and disappear like the Bermuda triangle names in photographs / scribbled notecards /
