The streets of India speak of time moving forward and time standing still. Of moving fast and moving slow. They speak of beauty and ruin. Of light and darkness. Of youth and wisdom. Of new and old. They speak of wanting and having. And whisper. Of the beginning and the end.
Rakesh is my father’s eldest brother’s son. He is the youngest of three, the only son. His sisters are Nita and Shilpa and his wife is Anu. They are my first cousins and she is my sister-in-law. But in India they are my sisters. And he is my brother. I remember when I was small, […]
the agent asked for my passport and my visa that was the first sign then, the sound of their voices speaking in english, dutch, french and hindi that was the second of crossing borders and international travel of leaving home and coming back to another it has been almost two days but we have now […]
It is easy to get lost in the majesty of the Pfister. In its leather and gold. Imported marbles and stained glass. Carved wood and wrought iron. Arresting art and cozy fireplaces. This is what they talk about when I ask them about the Pfister. Why they stay. And why they keep coming back. Its […]
here at the pfister they come from all over the north and south the east and west here and there 3 months and 200 voices whisper of miles on the road and meetings to attend time with family and with old friends their names and their stories fill my pages they tell of crossed borders, […]
One of the great joys I have as a writer is to meet other writers. Typically a writer meet up is filled with quotable quips, diagnosis hair-pin turns of phrases, and good humored word-wise one-upmanship. It’s the literary equivalent of dogs sniffing one another’s behinds. So like a happy, fluffy puppy, I was very excited […]