It was a woman: it read. Crumbled pages lay unattended in the corner. We didn’t know who she was. Neither did any of them. She lived in Bilchod. No one had ever heard of her until a few days ago. It was her death that caught our attention. There was no photograph, no mention of […]Read more "‘She gave me courage. And, now she’s gone…’"
It was him. We knew him by his stride. Lingappa strayed away from his path. His hands held nothing this time. Into empty streets, that summer evening, he disappeared once more. So did all of them, one by one. We saw their faces in the rear view mirror, one last time. Houses turned into tiny […]Read more "‘This water is toxic. It can’t be used in our farms’"
Summers were spiteful. And, that afternoon, was no different. We walked alongside the main road away from the village. In that brief instant, we were flung towards it again: spaces that defied warmth. Where sunken fields disappeared before sight, the winds became our only companions. The day got hotter. By the roadside, a small crowd […]Read more "‘Write down my name. Tell my story to anyone who’ll listen.’"
He lunged forward with an unsteady grace. His cheeks were pallid. His sunken eyes longed for sleep. It was February; that time when the weather turned rogue. Averting his glance from other villagers, Lingappa leaped from one corner to another. A few older men jeered impudently. Some glared at him as they walked by. They […]Read more "‘Nothing has changed in a long time. May be we will get used to it’"
At this time, the roads were deserted. Once more, a silence befell us. With every passing moment, the day grew hotter. In parting shadows, amidst arecanut palms, loitered a troop of women. They disappeared before us. We imagined their downtrodden eyes looking for shelter beneath trees. There they stood, for minutes perhaps, hoping to catch […]Read more "‘Poverty is worst enemy of human rights…’"
“We remember everything. The first signs of rain. The last signs of life. You never forget these things. You couldn’t even if you wanted to. First signs of death are the hardest to fathom. They always are. With the death of a harvest, comes the death of a voice. And, in their silent wails, you […]Read more "‘Everything looks dead in the village. Everything but us…’"
Dawn brought in warmth. It always did, these days. Like all summer mornings, the winds stirred the trees awake. They stood tall amidst a sea of green. In a distance, a grove of arecanut palms roared and fell silent again. Some fields strung a barren note. With every season, the tempest of maladies grew fierce […]Read more "‘Water: It’s the source of our life, and our struggles’"