tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17432912775297996912011-07-08T09:10:43.796+08:00Tales of a childhood filled with the piquant, the odiferous, the poignant.Anita Kapoorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616146234080284906noreply@blogger.comBlogger21100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1743291277529799691.post-49821918402240745712008-01-30T21:17:00.001+08:002008-01-30T22:58:11.523+08:00

It's time. For the rumble of fish carts, dripping blood and salty seawater and scales, hand manouvered through the city's fog by wirey, barefoot men proffering these elongated rickshaws. Bare chested machi marathoners all, crossing the city from the fat vessels berthed at Sassoon Dock, from the gaudily hued boats lining the sands of Cuffe Parade, met by their Koli sailors' thin and dark

Anita Kapoorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616146234080284906noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1743291277529799691.post-41628203229160301692008-01-15T11:41:00.000+08:002008-01-15T13:06:08.300+08:00

I am ready to run away. The only things that keep me in place are a series of particular olfactory memories of a time when once, I was free. They have come to symbolise a dreamy point in my existence, before I left those smells, before I fell full thrust into my bewildering new life that began promisingly with a shiny blue bike but eventually became a tale of grown ups and grown up troubles and

Anita Kapoorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616146234080284906noreply@blogger.com0