A black man in the US, Beatty is permanently uncomfortable. Typecast as a writer of satire, he thinks instead that he is just writing from that point of discomfort
A black man in the US, Beatty is permanently uncomfortable. Typecast as a writer of satire, he thinks instead that he is just writing from that point of discomfort
My tongue didn’t have a mind of its own. It had already become accustomed to life in exile, and it didn’t think much of returning home.
Was it conceivable that I was leaving behind a world of cold cuts, fiery chwoela, crunchy sekuwa, tangy drumsticks, juicy steaks and unbeatable dalbhatmasu?
Cruelly, it was Langtang’s very vitality that spelled doom for extended families up and down the valley.
Somehow we managed to escape them and we headed for the highest mountains we could see. No more police behind us, but it was clear why. There was no food, we were entering uninhabitable mountain reaches. We had to sleep in the snow.
I understand why some of my fellow citizens want to celebrate this document. But when I weigh that against why some other fellow citizens of mine find no reason for cheer, I find betrayal in the celebrations.
Within these tumultuous flames, I see many travelers, separated by immense distances and unimaginable timescales.
‘He beat them up, ek haat le madisey, ek haat le bhotey.’
