There it was, again. Ping. Metallic. Soft.
Like finger cymbals the Gypsy women had worn on
their long fingers when they danced at funerals
on Fort Street. Not a Gypsy in sight in the winter
darkness on McDougal Street and certainly too
cold to dance.
Har Prasad Sharma
Literary Committee was present in a room. A poet
took entry for the interview by keeping aside
the veil of the door. One member of the committee
asked indicating him to sit “How many books
have you written, Sir?” “Three books,
It was an unusual day. That dew-soaked morning
Arundhati was not alone. Leaving her house, she
had seen Mr. Rawal, an officer of E-6 rank, Mr.
Tiwari (E-1) and Mr. Mishra (E-5) pass by in front
of her house, shabbily clad, hair ......