Simmering. Never stopping. Always simmering. Simmering at the contours of our cognition. Simmering at the edges of our dreams. Simmering at the rims of our comprehension. At the corners of our being but never vanishing. That’s how our past lives. And how do we make eye contact with it? With pride? With temerity? With shame? With a … More The unending dance of ‘listening’
Orbital. A book I lived with for many days and nights. And then for periods I couldn’t make sense of – between rush runs and garrulous concalls, between silent dreams and chaotic honks, between pressured cabins and blinding night-lights. But I held it tight under all circumstances. Because it had become a friend. Across its … More View (and spirit) from Space
“The boy had no sooner arrived, people said afterwards, than Balaram had run into the house to look for the Claws. There were plenty of people gathered outside the big house to vouch for it — boys in buttonless shorts, toothless, shrouded widows, a few men who had not found work for the day, squatting … More ALU-ring while striking sharp
Until August. Like a run towards a time of the year. Like in waiting of something. Something that can leave the person changed despite the alteration unfolding in the minutest of fibers that resides agile and hidden under layers of commonplace fibers of the human body and scarcely asserts its position in the quotidian existence. August … More The Last Night, in August
In the recent years, a realization has dawned on me – the loudest of essences comes from the quietest of people; it is to say that those who do not give away words for a trifle, give words to matters that are substantial, and these very words invariably tend to ring long after they have … More Quiet Power of Right
She walked up. I wasn’t prepared for her arrival. And yet, there she was – leaning at my door, from the yesteryears, like a familiar but forgotten memory, one hand holding a camera, the other on her waist, asking me if she can come in. I let her. And with the falling night in the … More Behind the doors of civility
‘History is the consequence not only of people’s actions, but also of their forgetfulness.’ I couldn’t help but mull over this sentiment of the author in the light of the dastardly attack on him last year – an attack that, eventually, impacted his vision in one eye and movement of one arm. An attack for … More Two Centuries of Fable or Truth?
I might have missed young Latif if I had met him at a hotel or a lodge; bellboys are, after all, a part of that moving crowd which gathers (almost) no mass. But in Salim’s story, he is the hero. A hero who has a hairstyle like none other, a hero who takes care of … More Listen to his knock
“At the end of my first day, I noticed a new note on the cuff of his jacket. “The new housekeeper,” it said. The words were written in tiny, delicate characters, and above them was a sketch of a woman’s face. It looked like the work of a small child – short hair, round cheeks, … More Excerpt – Interrupting Thinking for Memory
“He put his arms around Charles, and Charles leaned against him, and for a moment they were quiet. It was then that he had a sudden vision of the two of them many years later, in some undated time far into the future. Outside, the world had changed: The streets had been overgrown with weeds, … More Vision of us, together – Reading “To Paradise”
SEEMITA DAS 