Slowly, Painstakingly, Like Ants, Men Would Make

When He Died, I Went About Like A Ragged Crow Telling Strangers, "my Father Died, My Father Died." My Indiscretion Embarrassed Me, But I Could Not Help It. Without My Father On His Delhi Rooftop, Why Was I Here? Without Him There, Why Should I Go Back? Without That Ache Between Us, What Was I Made Of?

A Journey Once Begun, Has No End

Could Fulfillment Ever Be Felt As Deeply As Loss? Romantically She Decided That Love Must Surely Reside In The Gap Between Desire And Fulfillment, In The Lack, Not The Contentment. Love Was The Ache, The Anticipation, The Retreat, Everything Around It But The Emotion Itself.

I Do Think That The Modern India Does Belong To Writers Who Are Living In India.

The Present Changes The Past. Looking Back You Do Not Find What You Left Behind.