Sadness Was So Claustrophobic.

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

A Journey Once Begun, Has No End

You Lived Intensely With Others, Only To Have Them Disappear Overnight, Since The Shadow Class Was Condemned To Movement. The Men Left For Other Jobs, Towns, Got Deported, Returned Home, Changed Names. Sometimes Someone Came Popping Around A Corner Again, Or On The Subway Then They Vanished Again. Addresses, Phone Numbers Did Not Hold. The Emptiness Biju Felt Returned To Him Over And Over, Until Eventually He Made Sure Not To Let Friendships Sink Deep Anymore.

Jemu Watched His Father Disappear. He Didn't Throw The Coconut And He Didn't Cry. Never Again Would He Know Love For Another Human Being That Wasn't Adulterated By Another, Contradictory Emotion.

Looking A Dead Insect In The Sack Of Basmati That Had Come All The Way From Dehra Dun, He Almost Wept With Sorrow And Marvel At Its Journey, Which Was Tenderness For His Own Journey. In India Almost Nobody Would Be Able To Afford This Rice, And You Had To Travel Around The World To Be Able To Eat Such Things Where They Were Cheap Enough That You Could Gobble Them Down Without Being Rich; And When You Got Home To The Place Where They Grew, You Couldn't Afford Them Anymore.