 By Samir Shukla
It was drizzling while I walked to my car, subconsciously matching the rhythmic dance and trance of a soft rainfall. I kept my head down so the water from the rain wouldn't wet my face. But then I gazed up at the playful gray clouds releasing their collectively held moisture to the ground. I stood there for a moment. The drizzle felt cool on my face during this warm summer day.  By Samir Shukla
I cherish my dual being. I'm a proud American who is proud of his Indian heritage. This combination has helped mark my place in the world. Indian Americans for decades have embedded in the American ethos, culture, and mainstream while preserving their cultural markers – language, food, art, philosophy. Indians have migrated to America for over a century, but the numbers began increasing in late 1960s and early 1970s. According to the 2020 Census, there are about 4.3 million Indian Americans in the United States.  By Samir Shukla
Climate change has almost won. Those are fighting words. I don't mean them in a defeatist sense. I'm a logical realist. Human imprints are so pervasive on this planet, that making changes to our destructive natures is a bit like coming to the party as the empty bottles and cans are being cleaned up and most folks have left the building.  A Highway and a Long-Ago Midnight
By Samir Shukla Whoa. That was close. The idiot in the blue Camry nearly sideswiped me on northbound Interstate 77. I veered my car quickly a few inches to the right to avoid him. I was alert enough to spot him about to connect with my car.  By Samir Shukla
There is an axiom. Well, maybe not an axiom, but a mark of personal experience. The sand is always hotter than it looks. You know what I mean. The sparkly sand at beaches around the globe during a summer day. Even though I've bounced around on hot sand for decades, I thought I'd make a barefoot dash to the outdoor showers to rinse the salty water off my face after a dip in the ocean. This was on a trip to the beach on a blue-domed July weekend. I had left the dollar flip flops near the chairs where we had made our stand for the day, a short distance from where the sand and the water were in an endless battle of redrawing the boundary between themselves. Of course, I took a couple steps and jumped back to the half-buried flip flops parked under one of the beach chairs. |
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