New York Is A Lovely City. It

I Love Truman Capote, Tennessee Williams, Flannery O'connor. I Read A Lot Of American Writers.

All Day, The Colors Had Been Those Of Dusk, Mist Moving Like A Water Creature Across The Great Flanks Of Mountains Possessed Of Ocean Shadows And Depths.

When He Died, I Went About Like A Ragged Crow Telling Strangers, "my Father Died, My Father Died." My Indiscretion Embarrassed Me, But I Could Not Help It. Without My Father On His Delhi Rooftop, Why Was I Here? Without Him There, Why Should I Go Back? Without That Ache Between Us, What Was I Made Of?

Sadness Was So Claustrophobic.

The Indian Diaspora Is A Wonderful Place To Write From And I Am Lucky To Be Part Of It.