Here’s Prasanga. He is one of two protagonists, one male and one female, in the sequel to the novel “Prasanga-the Wisdom Keepers.” It might take me a few years to write, but who cares? It’s on my list to complete before I die. Too many people have emailed me asking for the sequel. I’ve started the outline and am writing it backwards. Last scene gets worked first. Unless I know where I’m going I can’t make the journey. At least, not this particular journey. I might drown along the way, in the tunnels of the lava tubes, in the subterranean world.
In the meantime. The person who dislikes writing novels is writing one. How? Tiny segments. Minimalistic outline. Building and building on the essential. Hopefully, one of the keys to great writing.
I am still tossing out a prose poem here and there. Catch this one about India. Of course. India’s in my blood.
from “Snaps and Musings of a Life Exposed”
a developing collection of tiny stories and poems of a life looking backwards and forwards
A Brittle Peace
Sweep. Sweep. Sweep. Sweep. Northern Punjab. Two a.m. – yawning of morning, rhythm of women sweeping: one sweep two sweep three sweep four. Metal pots crash on hard tile, bouncing bold atonal booms across the communal kitchen. Open windows witness drama of breakfast preparations, biting winter air, fog-filtered moonlight. Limbs lazy, I yank holy blankets over cold limbs, curl up, fetal, shivering, sweep away miscarried dreams, kiss dust balls goodbye. Sweep one sweep two sweep three sweep four… five a.m. Lumber out of bed, shut wood panels against chill winds, sweep sleepy eyes, meditate on possibilities.
Bathed in dawn light, the village flutters awake. Hushed whispers from the dining room twist into “F- you’s!” shrieked over clanking dishes, chinking pans, dropped plates shattering. Honied aromas, red jam dhosas, steaming white curried rice, buttered oatmeal, cinnamon chai, cardamom, cloves, burnt toast—
trails of humans hammering,
India, I wept there once.