Pickles from home

Before slipping into sleep on cold winter nights in this far off land, I am picking through the articles in this book. I am reading the vignettes randomly, not following the order in which it is presented. I just pick what fancies me at the time and throw the pickled bit into my mouth. The taste of spices tickle my taste buds. The piece rolls and rollicks on my tongue, that can also speak in many tongues. Slowly the deep taste of the pickled fruit emerges and seeps through my senses. It takes me back in time and space. Some forgotten, some never known instances flood into my mind.

I have only covered half the book, but cannot not share the following…

The memory of that evening H.S.Shivaprakash read the early version of his anti-war poem in Feb 1992 lingered on. I had also read a bad poem, which is now lost and until now rightly forgotten. I can’t remember my lines except the play on the word ‘maraLu’- sand and the images of the blood crystallized on that hot desert sand…

Thanks Sugata Raju for the book.


ನಿಮ್ಮದೊಂದು ಉತ್ತರ

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