I wonder if someday one would be able to feel the same way travelling from Earth to Moon or something... ~_~ since science and wishes are always moving more and more forward. I like to read Mistress of spices when I feel that the city is too fast or cold or "grey", Tilo´s life can be an adventure althought she lives inside a store, there are many memories and all those colors, smells and flavours form the spices... it is inspiring. Now I´m reading The Nevereding story, its a wonderful book, about things that books can mean for people too. How about sharing some recipes? I always wonder how some foods from your book would taste if I had a real indian recipe...

The book quote can be attributed to Kafka.
It's one of my favorites. :)

You're right, Frances!

I definitely will share some recipes, Karen--I'll look in my notebook for some recipes that I learned from my mother.

i just attended the author chat on Facebook (fun!) and here is a poem from my mahabharat poetry folder. hope you enjoy it.

Kunti Mourns

I am the mother of somewhat human sons,
Spun out of sunlight, rainbows, constellations,
Progeny of wind, Death and Justice
Sons I cannot always acknowledge, or even understand
Sons that never forgive me, sons that cannot forget me
Sons that drag me through their maze of a life,
Through palaces made of lacquer, demon infested jungles
Where they share their wife, acquire new ones.

They tell me my sons epitomize a utopia, the golden epoch
I simply nod and look into the distance, as though waiting,
A habit I acquired when the sun came with an unexpected, unwelcome
Boon for me, a boon that haunts my uneasy sleep
I had thought to own the gods and command their presence
But what did I know then? What did I know what it might mean
Being raped by the indifferent, urgent elements?
Being less than a spoke in time’s gyrating wheel, barely a container
For a blood red future to which I lose my favorite grandson

I see you turn your face away from that re-hashed tale
Of unspeakable carnage, pausing only to see if I can be blamed for it
My sons did not turn away when I spoke, though, and used my unthinking syllables
As comfortable pegs to blame and hang their choices on,
The apocalyptic game, the harried banishment, the lost years
I am wiser now and don’t speak much anymore, not since the day
I spoke to soon and forced my virtuous sons to split a wife.

I stand here, moments later, some millennia later, stunned, caught in your accusing glance:
I am their mother; it is all my fault.

I am perched on the threshold between History and Myth
Neither will admit me
Neither will forgive me
For asking too much, for loving extremely, for not caring enough
None will name their daughters after me,
For fear their daughters might make monstrous mothers
To somewhat human sons and cause an epic age to fall
For fear their daughters might serve only fathers and sons,
And cause their mothers to be forgotten away
For fear their daughters will beget no more daughters
For fear their name, like mine, will remain undead, unable to die, unable to be re-born

by: Shefali Shah Choksi

Thank you Shefali. I really like the poem.

Chitra,

At Shasta College, some years back, you spoke and read your poem about women at play that a Women's Organization commissioned you.

I have always wanted to hear it again; to know it, read it to the women I see in my Women's Empowerment program.

Will you share it or tell me where I can find it?

Thank you,

Brenda Boudreaux

Chitra,

Thank you so much for helping me find the poem. I have your book Leaving Yuba City and will look it up to share. I've wanted to speak with you for a long time and am very happy to have found you.

Also, I want to share the following with you and hear your thoughts.

Dance to Cry

Rude interrupter of the deep design,
Vast endeavors
We struggle on with wounded spines
While drunkards plot the toxic rhyme and lace the dark.

Shafts of light in dingy shrouds groan through the crowded sky
And braced up for the wind against the mountains
Cut the moonbeams with a bitter cry.

All too many live to die

Pale un-favored face; the moon, pelts of silver sheds: Monsoon!
Grasp me!
Reach me!
None too soon…
Cold hold on the edge of doom

Hollow carvings, broken themes;
In through the window streams… nothing new.
All beheld the cancelled dreams.

Shards of mirror, cold gray schemes
Crouch like lies to catch the tears glancing off my bare heart
Jagged smiles gleam a ricochet scream.

Face the morning: We dance to cry.

Mimic of the butterfly struggles out the webbed cocoon

Scent of roses,
Sips of dew,
Fluted breezes all in tune

Marbled sunlight, graceful hues
Cast on time

My heart’s imbued with love
And thoughts so clean…

We’re all excused by God
It seems those who seek him know it’s so
Yet give it not enough and be forgotten

Forgive! Forgive! Forgive it all!

And walk

On gentle feet down paths unheard
Then on some silent day begin to live; some unlabeled day cannot be found.
And at the highest end of the flowery dale where the rocky glen meets the forest trail

Begin to live

Like old earth in peace
Making wider circles to restore until we meet once more at the edge of our endeavors
To build a foot bridge together over the brook that adjoins our lots,

Sturdy, nicely arched and made or yellow stones…
Or pink or blue if you like

I may still heat water for tea in an earthenware pot

And I may not.

Brenda Boudreaux

Thank you for your comment, Brenda. I am grateful my words reached out. These stories do express universal experiences.
Shefali.