Some people graduate once in a generation.  My oldest memories are of seeing a room full of onions—or in this case, two-thirds of the house

Jyoti used to live in Gagodhar, a small village in the Ujjain district of Madhya Pradesh. In her village, as soon as girls hit puberty,

The picture of a standing mother in a kitchen is ubiquitous. From dawn till beyond dusk. I have always observed my mother, managing the household

I  After a night’s sleep intermittently interrupted by sharp, penetrative period cramps, announcing the arrival of a difficult cycle, my alarm rings at 7 am.

Hey, It has taken me months to pen this down—a letter I suppose I’m writing to you, to me, to her. I remember reading Chughtai’s

The machinery of our global capitalist economy is designed to exploit caregiving and domestic labor, while erasing the humanity of those who perform it. In

Seeing my mother hate the kitchen and my aunt love it, I was very confused. Growing up, I couldn’t decide if liking it would betray

Gantala Press, a Filipino women’s press that I founded while employed in a private library, celebrates its tenth anniversary in 2025. I reflect here on