I can smell the diction Taliban just beyond my window. I can hear the rat-a-tat of their words, its robotic monotony, rattle of Kalashnikov. Peeking out the pane, I see skyscrapers raised on cacophony of flakes and wafers; buzz and…
Tag: Writing
Sam Was Sad
It was a sultry summer morning when I first met Sam twenty five years ago. My roommate was groveling for an omelet, sprawled in his bed. He had been missing his turn at cooking breakfast for the fourth day in…
A Mélange of Monologues
I was young when my family pulled out of a city to the backwaters of the country. Of the many heartbreaks I weathered, the loss of my small book club was the most debilitating. The civilisation I was uprooted from…
One Grain Amongst the Storm 