Somehow, the iconic poster of Che Guevara presented to me then by my cousin, the face collage in red and black with a beret sporting a solitary star, instilled in me a sense of importance though I had no idea what it was based on.
How does it feel when you are locked in metal, to a size many times smaller than what you actually are?
There was something about this woman he had wed, he could not decipher the transcendence she cast on him, and he felt himself drawn inexorably to her. If this was love, then he had been wrong all his life. It was unlike anything he had imagined love to be; based on what men knew and in itself, a concoction of theories with an inbuilt timer, something that blows up all ideas you hold as pertinent until then.
In Kerala, just as it has done for numerous millennia, the element of water has unfailingly played the prima donna in an annual ballet cued by nature.
Let’s say, whenever a car comes in, or somebody walks in through the gate, the whole path talks. That is the good thing with river gravel. You can be anywhere inside the house and realise that, yes, we got visitors.
Last week, I found the trademark beach cliffs of Varkala, and the sunbathing population, both searing in the summer sun. The crowds are thinning out perceptibly; you can make it out in the faces of the trinket vendors, distraught that the money trail will soon end.
The banana tree is a favourite, for it is such a splash of happy green. Last month, it had a huge cluster of bananas, neat whorls of it, culminating in the Yahoo-logo coloured flower that’s shaped like a mortar shell.
The IHM Chronicles Series
On My Nightstand
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