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Sunday, 24. September 2006

Changeling



The rain bent grass, still green, spangled with reds and browns of three-fingered maple leaves reminds me of all those hands that have laid over my body as it pulsed under some or the other weather: always a changeling.

Note: Darkness outside; rain, the smell of it and the light of it; and Bhimsen Joshi's "Miyan ki Malhar" make words superfluous, nearly.




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