Conversations with the wind
Did he ride it himself ? 1972 They arrived on a rickshaw — baba, dadi, bua — and I remember running out to meet them the way children run, which is to say without thinking about what running means. I don't remember saying namaste. I remember the rickshaw's rear,
Conversations with the wind
The first door My father called me in the stern voice. The one that meant: now. The one that didn't explain itself or leave room for questions. I was eleven, in a check shirt and shorts and tennis shoes, and I went the way you go when that
Conversations with the wind
A flame is a beautiful thing. It dances. It shifts. It holds within it a spectrum — orange, blue, yellow — never still, never the same twice. It draws the eye without asking for it. You can watch it for long stretches of time and not quite look away. It feels alive.