In the land of a million deities,
to be a woman
is a joke of divine proportions.
Freedom is a privilege, not right
from birth to death;
bestowed by a multitude
indoctrined with ages of unconscionable customs.
Amar Chavan and Suhas Wagh are seated on faded grey molded chairs under a giant blue and white beach umbrella. Both are in T-shirts, jeans and sports shoes. Suhas, wearing a green surgical mask around his neck, is singing his favorite Hindi songs.
The damp sand was smudged where she’d sat. She frowned, wiping her robes, clucking her tongue and clearing her throat all at the same time, looking around for her dispersed audience. Her ungainly body organised the fluid, light cloth draped around her with rickety staccatos...
The hall is built on a raised platform. You leave your shoes on the top of the staircase and walk across the outer yard to enter the main chamber. Built entirely of milk-white marble and decorated with arabesques and trellis work, it has a slightly atavistic feel to it. Tonight, there are many colours and many faces here.
In the heart of Pune city, stands the pulsating Shivaji Fish and Vegetable market, built in 1885, as the board outside boldly states. I stood there over whelmed with emotions, staring impassively, at the market gates which clearly indicated the divide between the outside world and the inner sanctum.
“Well done!” says Miss Puneetha Mary, picking up the notebook of the boy in the third row. She holds up the book for the whole class to see how a perfect straight line should be drawn. The little boy beams and blushes, and as his teacher walks away, flips the pages of his notebook to look at the carcasses of his earlier attempts.
Mariam Bi sat on her bed, swathed in her numerous faded blankets and shawls, surrounded by her necessary paraphernalia in a complacent doze. It was dark in her room because she did not like the new CFL bulbs which Aziz her grandson had put up.