July 14, 2006
July 11, 2006
I hurt a friend. Or, my friend hurt me. I could never figure out who hurt whom. When I'm down and licking the wounds, I feel that it was my friend's fault. But when I'm doing good and on cloud nine, it seems it was my fault. Did I or didn't I -- the question torments and subsides only to surface at a vulnerable moment. It hurt, it hurts, either way.
July 05, 2006
My three-and-half-year-old son seems to have nursing a dream of becoming an artist. He would come to me with his small box of water colours and brush and ask me to fetch him a bowl of water and a notebook. This morning, he repeated this request and I obliged (I have to). After sometime, I saw water all over the page with a few strokes of blue. I scolded him for spoiling the notebook. "Father, this is a painting of a water tank. Don't you know, water tank contains water," he replied. This is not all. He, then, asked me to paint fish. I opened another page and drew a couple of fish. He protested saying, "Father, you should paint the fish in the tank. They can't survive out of water."
No Country for Children They die in borewells, They perish on the shores, Succumb to Fevers in the jungles, in villages. They die, dum...