Quote 19 Oct
For the moment, though, fear remains. “I stay in my house at night,” said Mr. Lone, the resigned sarpanch of Nowpora Jagir. “Only Allah knows who comes, and who kills, and who goes.”
— 

http://nyti.ms/TxYwGr

- for every article like this, there is an article like that - http://bit.ly/TuhLka

Quote 1 Oct 1 note
We know that behind the opaque cloud of our ignorance and the uncertainty of detailed outcomes, the historical forces that shaped the century, are continuing to operate. We live in a world captured, uprooted, and transformed by the titanic economic and techno-scientific process of the development of capitalism, which has dominated the past two or three centuries. We know, or at least it is reasonable to suppose, that it cannot go on ad infinitum. The future cannot be a continuation of the past, and there are signs, both externally, and, as it were, internally, that we have reached a point of historic crisis. The forces generated by the techno-scientific economy are now great enough to destroy the environment, that is to say, the material foundations of human life. The structures of human societies themselves, including even some of the social foundations of the capitalist economy, are on the point of being destroyed by the erosion of what we have inherited from the human past. Our world risks both explosion and implosion. It must change.
— E.J. Hobsbawm. 1917-2012
Text 23 Sep Lime Preserve

There was a lime tree in the center of my father’s courtyard. Sometimes my brothers and I would pick the fruit too early, in our rush for a glass of that sweet-sour-salt-sherbet. On cool winter evenings, we would linger in the courtyard, listening to our bellies’ duet with the neighborhood’s pressure cookers. The tree was never large, but I also don’t recall it ever being planted, or it’s ever growing. It simply existed; in that way that memory can sometimes fool you into believing in the timeless nature of things. In my mind’s eye, the tree stands today as I left it, immune to the dust from the concrete slabs being brought in, not hearing the pounding of rebar all around it, unaffected by the sweat dripping from the scaffolds of the workers hanging over it. The tree was uprooted years ago, but today I dreamt of it, the courtyard, my mother pickling the fruit, my father on the pat, my brothers fighting, my house across an ocean, and my memory of it all fading.

Text 25 Jul The President’s Bungalow

The house has now found itself in the center of town, a monument to the time of the Raj when inspectors and administrators each received his personal fiefdom. It was replete with servant’s quarters, a proper garden, and the ubiquitous pat - that flat wooden swing, hung from gaudy brass chains, ornamented with camels, elephants, and deities that all proper desi houses must have. The parlor was outfitted in traditional British style, unchanged, uninhabited, and now looking strangely uncouth. The individual rooms upstairs, each with cots and mosquito nets hanging from the ceiling, reminded one of hospitals in old war films - creaky, wheezing under the strain of the tangled mess of sweat, blood, and bile. I remember playing games with Darum’s son in an unfamiliar room across from the entranceway, speaking in that children’s Esperanto.

Photo 2 Jul Touring around Flanders with a little cirque, day-tripping/canal meandering in Amsterdam, stumbling upon ruined castles and beer-brewing abbeys in the Ardennes, hamlet hopping in the Moselle, warm welcomes, whiskey, wine and champagne (in Champagne, naturally), but, upon reflection, I was partial to the company.

Touring around Flanders with a little cirque, day-tripping/canal meandering in Amsterdam, stumbling upon ruined castles and beer-brewing abbeys in the Ardennes, hamlet hopping in the Moselle, warm welcomes, whiskey, wine and champagne (in Champagne, naturally), but, upon reflection, I was partial to the company.


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