It's midnight, and I lay in bed sipping tea. I've been reading 'Girl with a pearl earring', and its bringing in a gust of wind err-ing into gloominess. The same guttural feeling of sadness that doesn't fail to elude you when you read such stories. Its always the people elsewhere, like the Geisha whose story is brought to you in straight lines. No bends. It's this or that. It's black or white. There is no blending of words, there is just happiness or pain. There is depth but you must read into it, otherwise you're lost to the sounding of the words. It's when they talk of things, as though there could have been no other way.
I had transgressed into the realms of that world long ago, and then I stopped short of falling lightly into it.
She wanted to the see The Hague. A younger me had then walked through den Hague, the cold wind infringing my body.
A Pearl S Buck does the same thing to me. There are no colors. None. What remains is simply a deep sense of regret and sorrow.
Maybe that's why I still have the urge to read an Indian writer. They act as pauses. For you to regain familiarity, to the world that you know, where I could pose a beautiful white frangipani to my thick black hair and smile at you, and you wouldn't know how much my hands bled just before that. Something like a Swahili love poem.
I had transgressed into the realms of that world long ago, and then I stopped short of falling lightly into it.
She wanted to the see The Hague. A younger me had then walked through den Hague, the cold wind infringing my body.
A Pearl S Buck does the same thing to me. There are no colors. None. What remains is simply a deep sense of regret and sorrow.
Maybe that's why I still have the urge to read an Indian writer. They act as pauses. For you to regain familiarity, to the world that you know, where I could pose a beautiful white frangipani to my thick black hair and smile at you, and you wouldn't know how much my hands bled just before that. Something like a Swahili love poem.
No comments:
Post a Comment