A water tank for Allauddin Khilji now stinks of affluence- melts old in new. Memory snakes in through these yellow tunnels like a ghost in search of old. I pass between dreams frozen in an wooden bus, now soaked in rain-one that no one boards- for the seats are all cheap and wet, and rain can flood your throat like a bad memory- and the workers are all drunk and weary- they do not pickpocket dreams as they return home- drenched beggars sell books wrapped in plastic- and hijras are well behaved;
only sometimes, a graffiti on metro construction wall
questions the very reason for your existence.
F
Fiercely Tender: The Simple Complex World of Michael Ondaatje’s Novels
Shortly afterwards in that novel we encounter a celebration of the body, grime and all, unimpeded by this abstraction called mind. While writing the body might seem not altogether unusual, my point is that you cannot simply assume its naturalness. Language, even fictional language, is so much of a mentally...
