Feras Terrae
As if to remind you that, regardless of what they say, you yourself are an island. Nothing but the grass grows there.
Longing
I go home to Pune, filled with wistful anticipation tinged with dread. As we hold hands and walk down the streets we once loved, the changes are all around us.
The Killer Who Sang for the Kids
Imagine, if you can, a record producer coming to his boss with an idea for a new album; a collection of children’s songs by a black man who has been imprisoned several times, once for killing a relative in a fight over a woman, a second time for attempted murder of a white man.
The swiftness with which such a proposal and its author would be dispatched today would set a land speed record for rejection of cockamamie ideas.
