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It was a hard fall. Kheya was astounded—not because she fell, but because of the person she fell for. The man was a magician of words, with a thick beard and a thin voice and was about one
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“Everyone has a tree.”Golibe said. “And every man craves a moon. The moon is what he wants but the tree is where he ends. The tree is
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The ant mound was intact until Kheya stepped on it. Pappu was trying to pick some ripe oranges from the big orange tree by the gate. While running toward him, Kheya stepped right on the mound and got attacked by a platoon of red ants.
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I do not write. I am not a writer. I am an active thought, willing to reveal through words the enigmas of human lives and the perplexities of women's stories.
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Life is an elegy, written by time. The instinct of life itself is elegiac, for it always reminds us of fragmentations and jouissance. Life reminds us of things that “are gone into a world of light,” (as Eusuf writes in her poem,
