Tribute to a struggle veteran
“MICHELANGELO would have liked to paint or sculpt him. Not just because his face, wreathed by a white beard of rare gentleness, had a hand-carved perfection to it. Or because his pair of ocean-travelled eyes seemed to say "I have seen, seen it all". But because his entire countenance, bearing, mien, were compelling. Like that of some Old Testament figure who has been drawn into the New, a friend of some past nobility that has stumbled onto a newborn's crib. The subject for a Basilica's murals.” Gopal Gandhi on Maulvi IA Cachalia, ‘Legacy of Struggle’, The Hindu, 19 Oct 2003.

You cannot read 'Loss'
A striking quote from the movie: Memoirs of a Geisha...~ At the temple, there is a poem called "Loss", carved into the stone. It has three words, but the poet has scratched them out. You cannot read "Loss"... Only feel it.~ Narrator.

Literary Award Winners 2009
A16: Food + Wine by Nate Appleman, Shelley Lindgren and Kate LeahyWinner of the IACP Cookbook AwardsWolf Hall by Hilary MantelWinner of the Man Booker Award The Graveyard Book by Neil GaimanWinner of the Newbery Medal and Hugo Award for Best Novel American Lion by Jon MeachamWinner of the Pulitzer Prize for Biography Blue Heaven by C. J. BoxWinner of the Edgar Award for Best Novel The Land of Green Plums by Herta MullerWinner of the Nobel Prize for Literature Tribute by Nora

Different, and the same...
Silence is barely empty when you punctuate it with so many things that can mean more than all those thousand worded delusions that I have been chasing all my life.It is, full. And it is empty.I think I have all the answers to that one question.I think I know.I know that days will still run as an open tap; that years will flow as running water from therein. Years flow from days. That's what I have come to know.I know that words will get stuck like that log in that dream, causing dams to form of muck and grime and sand and silt.I also know that I will change. And I will remain the same.And the running thread w

*SN33ZE*
I write because its what I do. Like breathing, thinking, eating, being. Writing is something to do. It takes the dust from the sinews in the mind and scatters it just under my nose, makes me sneeze to release the collective phlegm. Get it out. And then, when the nasal passages are cleared, it allows me to breathe in the reality of a cleaner world. I take it all in. The stories from around me, and the data from within. I make notes. I present them to a greater audience. And it takes on a life of its own.I write. Because I love the idea of feeling bloated with ideas and letting them flow through an unlikely orifice; the tips of my fingers. Like a secret door, they tap, tap,