The way she conveys about the human relationships and their emotional turmoil, the physical universe is vivid.
Even a pimple is a prison riot in the jail cells of idealized femininity!
They were coming to terms with erosion, how it changes the balance of a landscape. Perhaps it was something all parents and children undergo as they grow older. In this world, they could not inhabit a house together, in the old way. They could not be mother and daughter in that way again.
"How can you keep track of those old, old things?" ( asks Sagar ). Because it is the lot of mothers to remember what no one else cares to, Mrs. Dutta thinks. We are the keepers of the heart's dusty corners.
Home. I turn the sound over on my tongue, trying to figure out the various tenses in which such a word might exist.
Invisible flowers spread greater fragrance. Home is where you move fluently through the dark
Ocean is nothing but water drop upon water drop.
When the taxi took off with a belch of black fumes, my mother moaned softly. It was an eerie, nonhuman sound. I felt it taking shape in my own throat, the way one wolf might as it watches another wolf howl.
When I choose anger, do I have to pay a price? I'll reply with another question: Don't we all have to pay; no matter what we choose?