He was the purple flower with
his palms for leaves
that could hold the
tears passed down
as family legacy.
Not many people live here anymore.
And those who do, they look like,
they’ve forgotten how to laugh.
On the first day of 2019 I happened to be rifling through a bookshelf in a hotel in Benaulim, Goa, a bookshelf of the sort common in places where people come to forget.
“Have you seen a nāgā?” I was talking to an eminent scholar, from a famous American university, about Kathmandu’s religion. He clearly felt that I’d misunderstood what these spirits might be. “They are not snakes,”...
I’ve been back barely a fortnight and my system is rejecting the very air I breathe. My throat feels raw, my eyes water and itch, and I’ve been sneezing like the Dickens.
Let’s spit out the cliché: you are what you eat. What, then, are we? A garden of flowers nodding in the wind? A nation of voracious mlechhas?
The last sip of chai means morning is done. You have plans to abandon.
Perhaps our salvation and power lie in standing together and sharing our stories, loudly and clearly.
Where’s the pleasure in tea without a bit of a burp?