In 1911 rural India, Baba Singh Toor commits a shocking act of violence to avenge a crippling loss, setting a secret in motion that will haunt—and claim—the Toors for generations.

Hardened by a crime for which he was never caught, Baba’s past casts shadows over his sons, even as the era of British Colonial tyranny and oppression reaches its height. In the distant colony of 1940s Fiji, his son, Manmohan, a virtuoso of enterprise, bears the burden of his father’s sin, plagued by an all-consuming insecurity that suffocates his own children. And twenty-five years later in San Francisco, Darshan—inextricably linked to his grandfather, Baba Singh, by both birth and fate—finds himself dragged to the center of conflict. Held accountable for the Toors' dark history, he labors to honor his name—meaning one who is blessed with clarity of sight—attempting to keep the family from irreparably splintering apart. A novel in three parts, Darshan is a raw examination of the lifetimes required to reconcile one man's fatal mistake.

An ambitious, epic debut novel that finely balances historical elements of nations struggling under Colonial rule with the tragedy of men who refuse to release their sorrow, written in keenly descriptive, fluid, and penetrating prose.

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The daughter waves a hand in front of her mother’s face, fascinated—and alarmed—by the half visible irises, the rheumy whites. Her mother is sleeping, mouth open, a hoarse rattle emanating from deep within her throat. She has always been known to sleep with her mouth shut, sometimes clacking her teeth behind sealed lips, chewing on her dreams. The daughter once laughed at this oddity, teased her for it. Now her mother does not appear to be dreaming. The hospital bed takes up half the living room.

Galvanized by the words fatal and late-stage,...continue reading


“On the Black Sea, We Float”—Solstice Literary Magazine, December 2015

Sonny, face deadpan, flings his ballpoint across the reflective marble of the conference table. It flies with unintended precision, hitting his older sister Maya in the center of her chest like a dart. A tentative smile twitches across her face, because he's fifty-six and he's never been good at anger, never had reason to be. The pen was the best he could manage. He clamps his jaw to make himself clear, sees the disgrace of what she's done turn her face down, settle like spring pollens into her sinuses...continue reading

“The Backlands”—Litbreak, January 2017

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