You know those instances when we start off in the wide, turbulent currents of a river making its way downstream?
The voices–the wails that had called me here–were emanating from these very graves.
Lighting struck everywhere. Amidst the enchanted woods, the howls of wolves echoed with a joyous "Awoo!".
That was the first time in my life I’d smelled charred meat. I could tell it was different from the kind you’re supposed to eat, and my mother had to hold me as I threw up violently on the side of the street.
Oh that angelic call, yet I cannot respond. I cannot open my mouth in fear of the burning pain overpowering my senses.
Back at home, food used to narrate stories. Here, food does not travel far to the nooks and crannies of Velutha’s heart; it only reaches his stomach well enough to leave him looking healthy and strong.
Sameer’s mother looked at her husband before quickly stepping in and attempting to defuse the situation. “You know it’s just a heritage thing. We’re not really Biharis".
“It was where people crafted stories, my boy!”
I’d never felt sadder at the prospect of not being a part of someone else’s story.
You know those instances when we start off in the wide, turbulent currents of a river making its way downstream?
The voices–the wails that had called me here–were emanating from these very graves.
Lighting struck everywhere. Amidst the enchanted woods, the howls of wolves echoed with a joyous "Awoo!".
That was the first time in my life I’d smelled charred meat. I could tell it was different from the kind you’re supposed to eat, and my mother had to hold me as I threw up violently on the side of the street.
Oh that angelic call, yet I cannot respond. I cannot open my mouth in fear of the burning pain overpowering my senses.
Back at home, food used to narrate stories. Here, food does not travel far to the nooks and crannies of Velutha’s heart; it only reaches his stomach well enough to leave him looking healthy and strong.
Sameer’s mother looked at her husband before quickly stepping in and attempting to defuse the situation. “You know it’s just a heritage thing. We’re not really Biharis".
“It was where people crafted stories, my boy!”
I’d never felt sadder at the prospect of not being a part of someone else’s story.
The infallible whiteness of the walls, the omnipresent smell of disinfectants, and the fields of artificial grass come back to me. Swimming before me are visions of smiling children and the legions of overworked childcare professionals constantly at their service. Every blink threatens to permanently relocate me to their world of ceaseless laughter.
