Read the book by the Jewish Memoirist I prescribed for you? She regards journaling thoughts as her Saviour. Tell me straight up what does writing do for you? When I get eyeballs on my work, I live, otherwise I wilt. So publication comes uppermost, right? Yes! You must revisit Emily. Bronte? Dickinson. She’s very famous. …
The wind was ripping at him as he entered the tree-shaded Ashram. The garden path led him to the riverside where he sat on a chair and looked out at the coursing river.
Hello Ka, do you still write poems these days at the drop of a hat? Stopping by at mysterious nooks at odd hours waiting all-eyes-and-ears for its birth with a notepad and a pencil, sharp as a quill, resting between your finger and thumb?
Train and my mouthpiece: how could you separate the two?
Homeless, he spent years inside a rail-carriage, almost like Penelope Fitzgerald did on an old barge.
Quite early one morning I was crossing on foot the bridge on river Ganges. There was noone save a lady coming from the opposite direction. As we got closer, I could sense she was shooting repetitive glances my way. When we were about to pass each other by, she waved her hand as if to say hello and said: “Your face rings a bell. Although these days I have memory lapses, didn’t I meet you at this very place many years ago?”
The motorised boat left the ghat. When we reached mid-river, I could asee a floating black dot near the shore just left behind moving in our direction.
Last month I was at Oxford Book Store, Park Street, Kolkata, one of my favourite haunts. As I stepped in, I did not pause at the New Arrival sec- tion near the entrance as is my wont. As if drawn slowly but inexorably by something at the far end on the right-hand corner just past the stairs, I kept ambling along. Then I found myself near a shelf stuck to the wall, my hand reaching towards a book placed on top of it: The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron.
He’s pounding the pavement late night incognito. A Street dog espied him and showed him around.
The train was still. Achromatic gloom outside. No station in sight. His eyes, blinking groggily, narrowed to a circle of luminescence, dimming and brightening, waning and waxing. Was he hallucinating, he couldn’t be sure.
