Author: Anjali Sarkar
-
Ensouled Languages
The maternity nurses in the tiny German hill-town were exasperated. ‘The black one’s bawling again,’ my mother heard them whisper among themselves. I was a talkative child and before I could talk I cried. I cried till neighbors peeked in enquiring what the pandemonium was all about. My first five years, the formative years, were…
-
Where the I sees nothing
I tried my best, perhaps too hard, to draw the eye inward and focus on the incremental eight steps that Patanjali claims will leave me awed and enlightened and in need of nothing else. Our model was the turbaned guru up front, beneath the ceiling fan, who Om-ed until hearts sank and curtains soared. The…
-
Closing Time
It’s five minutes to nine at the library, the warning blares. The hunched hoodlum in the corner settee wipes a dripping blade on his cuff and gets ready to push off unseen. The student slinking between the aisles bags two textbooks he can sell his roommates. A man rushes in breathless at one minute to…