Scene: A young, scholarly priest walks past the banks of the holy Ganga, as a pale yellow evening settles. Visibly brooding, he takes no notice of the sights and greetings around him, and makes straight for home, where, laying the plain jute satchel of books atop a wooden desk, he pulls out a loosely bound one and begins to write, just as the early eastern skies begin to darken.
Tag: history
Until You Return
With Sainted blessing we begin 'fore Ishwara's dance of destruction,
Nārāyaṇī
'Sita in Ashoka Grove' It was called Ashok-the grove of no sorrows...where, she, held by forcedwindled 'tween gloomand the faithful hopeof rescue by her LordSay, O, Tree, she spokein a dusked, despairing hourTo thy name be truelend me a branching handthat my hair may as rope free me in soul, if not in formAs winds,… Continue reading Nārāyaṇī
The Barbaric Now
What need there be for thorned ropes or swords with poison laced? That is for the barbaric
ORANGE FEET, GREY FEATHERS – a short story from 2010
Tsunamis didn’t fawn over and bow to the rich, they would make no distinction between farmer and master.
Ishaisms 
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