A note home, from India

I have seen this man in your drawing a million times in India. He, most often, is hollering madame from the street. Perhaps one time he sold beedies.

Anymore dreams of horses?

My dreams have all been fabric and bazaars and chai and masala and India, her heart: all free of good price, my shop.


Did I just pop the balloon?

I am learning to write Hindi. First the script. Writing it is smooth and intoxicating, like James when he draws.

I finished 'Running in the Family'. Sri Lanka and its dynamic elite, drunk on aristocratic local norms, a taste of the flavour of the tree that grows from the ground from which you are part.

There is a big wall between me and this India.


I am a tourist.