Each of us, the guiltily innocent, has his own means of getting away from the news.
It’s Tuesday and not early in the night but I anyway stop by after work at Elite, on the main road two streets away from my apartment, and head to the rooftop. If you stand by the parapet you can see, over the pots of desiccated cacti fenced in with bamboo splits, shoals of winking cars gliding by and shoppers picking discounted vegetables out of the plastic crates outside the supermarket. There’s nothing to see, really, this place is only three floors up from the road, but it makes the drinkers feel liberated—the enclosed patch of fuzzy Bangalore sky and the freedom to fill the ashtrays at your table. The laughter is always more strident here, on the roof of Elite, pronounced, for some reason, “A-Light”.
Read the whole story in Mint Lounge’s year end fiction special, December 26, 2015
The sick and the healthy have nothing in common, thinks Jaan. She’s been dreaming of a solitary man testing nails against wood, but on waking knows there are dozens of men hammering the new world into shape outside, the air dense with the dust they have raised. There is nothing tentative about their rhythm – it is the most confident sound in the world, and it will not allow her to go back to sleep. This is the healthy: they are huge, they dominate the skyline, they eat up the bandwidth. The sick, huddled in bed, are small and particular; they are the punctuation marks in the prose of life. And life rushes forward, tripping over them in its impatience.
Read the whole story in Granta, March 13, 2013