by Anjali Mitter Duva
In school in France, I was American, because the French have an obsession with America. In the US, despite my perfect American accent, I was French, because that’s glamorous. No one could figure out the Indian thing, even in India. Continue reading
I read a beautiful and haunting anecdote in a guidebook to Rajasthan: it’s possible for children to reach the age of five without ever seeing rain, and therefore the ceilings and walls of royal children’s bedrooms were sometimes painted with cloud designs so that when it did finally rain, they would not be afraid. I wrote this image down, and everything else started spilling out. Continue reading
by Anjali Mitter Duva
In front of him was a lithe and graceful dancer, not the tired, bony old man he saw at home, whose presence lately suffused the air with tension. The gods had made Bapu a dancer; not even Mahendra could deny that. Continue reading
