Sadness Was So Claustrophobic.

The Indian Diaspora Is A Wonderful Place To Write From And I Am Lucky To Be Part Of It.

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

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?

When You Write On Your Own, You Can Write The Extremes. No One Else Is Watching And You Can Really Go As Far As You Need To.

All Day, The Colors Had Been Those Of Dusk, Mist Moving Like A Water Creature Across The Great Flanks Of Mountains Possessed Of Ocean Shadows And Depths.