i read Lahiri's interpretor of maladies, a collection of short stories, more than a year ago. it was spell binding. i remember my heart pounding away. my breath short. i'd slowly easy myself back, draw a deep breath, hold the book close to me and sigh. a blissful sigh. the last words read lingering in my mind, not wanting to roll of my tongue.
the namesake was equally intriguing. an entire world of dismissed possibilities.
names. merely identity markers or greater determinants of destinies. i symphatised with gogol but certainly could not emphatise with him. unlike gogol, i would have no other name to call myself by.
i have no namesake. i am my own. unique. a product of crossroads between traditional religiosity and modernity.
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