Prose poetry at its most beautiful.
I never thought I could enjoy stories like this so much. Every story is so rich, so intricate, so charming! It’s supposed to be for children and adults alike, but I wonder how much I would have taken in had I read it as a child. Reading it now, I smiled, I shook my head and felt that warm glow of my inside smiling.
Take, for example, an excerpt from A Day
‘… The room was dark. I didn’t feel like working. I picked up the sitar and struck up Raag Malhar, a tune befitting the rains.
From the next room she came and stood at the door just once and then she went back. After a while, she appeared at the threshold again. Then slowly she stepped inside …
The rain drizzled to a stop; my music came to an end. She got up and went away to do her hair.
It was nothing more than this: just a certain afternoon swathed in rain, music, leisure and shadows.
Stories of kings and emperors, wars and mutinies abound in history. But such infinitesimal communions on certain afternoons stay hidden in Time’s coffer like a cherished gemstone, its secret known to only two people.’