Sense & Nonsensibility

The bag sits in the corner untouched. It’s been a week since I have been back, but I refuse to unpack. I want the vacation to go on for ever Lovelies , I may have found my favorite city..well  yet anyway.  Day 1: I take the red eye to LHR and land early morning, its raining, but I have the pre booked Heathrow Express tickets ( the joys of travelling with planners), that take me to Paddington. I get in with my fellow red eye passengers- its 7 in the morning, a few people are bleary eyed while a few a prim and polished ready to strut into Paddington and take on the world. As the train pulls out of Heathrow train station, I see a few grey buildings close to the train lines, the area mostly bare. My mind immediately goes back to the fact that if this was Mumbai or New York you would never find an empty space this close to the train station still within city limits, and then, just like that I spot a distant spire. And within a moment the church comes into view with a green co...

I accept it.. I have been a little slow on the uptake of Indian authors. Once I fell in love with the league of authors like Chitra Divakaruni ( Sister of my heart), Jhumpa Lahiri (  Interpreter  of maladies) there was no turning back. But they were stories of Indian authors brought up and living in the States, their stories marking the juxtaposition of lives as sweaty, colourful ( see how I spell that with a ‘ u’?), small town/ middle class India to the wide roads, white picket fence American houses, giving a voice to a generation of Indian men and women that migrated to the US for extended education and by marriage. Then came the books by Suketu Mehta ( Maximum City), Salman Rushdie ( Midnight’s children)** based wholly in India ……..books that spoke of an country as experienced by someone who has the same well of memories and experiences as all Indians.  Of course this isn’t brand new, Britishers, Americans have been writing about India for the longest ti...