I told the policemen, ‘Charu Nivedita is my chittappa (the younger brother of father), and he has stepped out briefly. Please have a cup of tea somewhere and come back soon; I’ll call him on the phone.’
I told the policemen, ‘Charu Nivedita is my chittappa (the younger brother of father), and he has stepped out briefly. Please have a cup of tea somewhere and come back soon; I’ll call him on the phone.’
My mother and Naina treated me like an emperor; there was no scolding or reprimand. My mother often remarked that I should have been born in a mansion, but instead, I ended up being born in that slum. Education was nowhere to be seen in her family – only one brother among my mother’s eleven siblings received an education.
So the death of my father is now fodder for a story. This is the story of the writer in me walking all over my Naina’s life, and maybe his corpse too, and putting the journey into words. ‘Ordinary’ ethical frameworks can’t apply to a writer who walks on the ‘corpses’ of others.