I was born old, skin leathery, wrinkled, folded into a million furrows and solid ridges. When they saw me there was a collective gasp. My mother’s hand quivered when she reached out to touch me. She didn’t want to, but the maternal instinct is strong and primal. Even...
The question may be simple to articulate but the answer, surely never that simple. Diasporic literature seeks to explore and answer this in its many forms. Post-colonial theories try to understand the behaviour of the colonised and the colonisers. I don’t need to...
Rukmini wills herself to stay lying on the sofa. Om, Om Shanti, she chants. The ghosts dance, screaming in a frenzy, wild shapes tearing at her eyelids, at her mind. Voices calling out as if to say, ‘Come with us. We have come from far; we will take you away. Come….’...
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