by Priya Malhotra Mira remembers her third birthday party as a scene of almost extravagant happiness. There was a cream-puff cake, tier upon tier of it, which in memory has acquired the architectural grandeur of a wedding cake. Helium balloons floated close to the ceiling, their ribbons dangling into the room. She remembers presents, noise,…

by Priya Malhotra Before I launch into any critique of the phone, I should confess that I am not immune to its seductive qualities. I am not writing from a mountain, purified by silence, looking down at the scrolling masses. Like almost everyone else, I spend too much time on my phone. I reach for…

by Priya Malhotra When I went to Singapore last month, I found myself staring at the streets with a kind of baffled fascination. They were so clean that they seemed almost untouched by human life. There were no half-torn love letters plastered to the pavement by some earlier rain, no crumpled receipt skittering in the…

by Priya Malhotra We stand in front of a painting and extol its brilliance. We listen to a piece of music and call it genius. We watch a film and admire its evocativeness. We hold a beautifully designed object and marvel at its simplicity. What we don’t see — what we almost never ask about…

by Priya Malhotra Cruelty, at least the old-fashioned kind, has a shape. It announces itself. It arrives with words you can quote later, replay, contest, reject. Even when it stings, it offers a surface against which the self can brace. Ghosting, by contrast, has no edges. It leaves no fingerprints. It is not an act…

by Priya Malhotra When I first met Liara (name changed to protect privacy), my fourteen-year-old daughter’s friend, she was snatching her iPhone from her mother’s hands and furiously typing my daughter’s number into it. Her backpack dangled off one shoulder, her wild hair tumbled to her waist, and she spoke so quickly that my middle-aged…

by Priya Malhotra There’s a strange vulnerability in realizing that no one is coming to comfort you—and a stranger kind of strength in learning that maybe, just maybe, you can do it yourself. Lately, I’ve been thinking about the child I was. Not in some wistful, soft-focus way, but with the fierce clarity of someone…

by Priya Malhotra Someone asked me recently how I was doing, and I said “Fine,” without thinking. Then I heard myself—how practiced, how precise. “Fine” is code. It’s short for: I’m tired, but I can’t afford to be. I’m grateful, but I’m lonely. I’m not drowning, but I’m not exactly swimming either. The truth is,…

by Priya Malhotra The first time many of us learn the word “no,” it’s not in the context of refusal—it’s in discipline. A toddler reaches for the stovetop: “No.” She throws a block: “No.” In these earliest exchanges, no is a limit set by someone else, a redirection of will. It’s a stop sign held…

by Priya Malhotra Virtue wasn’t always gentle. In ancient Rome, virtus was a word of force and visibility. It came from the Latin word vir, meaning “man,” and encompassed ideals of military bravery, civic leadership, and public excellence. A virtuous man was someone who acted decisively in the public sphere—whether in war, politics, or the…

by Priya Malhotra When I typically envisioned a woman in her seventies, I—like many of us—pictured someone wrinkled and bent—not just physically, but also mentally and emotionally. I imagined someone dimmed, only to fade further with time. A woman well past the best years of her life, wearied by disappointments, melancholy with regrets for cherished…

by Priya Malhotra  “How are you?” asked my aunt about a year ago in my living room in New Delhi, her tone languorous and inquisitive, her gaze perched on my face. Having recently moved back to India after about 28 years in the U.S., this deceptively simple question both thrilled and discomfited me. I was…

by Priya Malhotra What do an intoxicating drink and an ancient beauty ritual have in common? How did a word once linked to Roman roads become synonymous with insignificance? And what strange connection exists between human strength and a tiny, scurrying creature? Language is a traveler. Words cross borders, crisscross centuries, and sometimes transform so…

by Priya Malhotra When I think of New York City, the first image that rises to the surface isn’t its vaunted skyline, those defiant towers scraping at the heavens. It isn’t the classical grandeur of the Metropolitan Museum where civilizations whisper through marble and canvas, nor the razzle-dazzle of Broadway where melodies unfurl amidst a…