At last night's launch of Waking is Another Dream, Canada-based Eelam poet Cheran, said--almost in passing--that since going into exile, he never dreams about the cities he lives in, only of home. It somehow didn't sound nostalgic when he said it, just terribly sad. I'm looking forward to reading the book.
By the time I fell asleep, I was no longer thinking about about war, exile or genocide, but of things closer to home. Where do the dreams we dream right here in Delhi come from? What do they cost? Who is trying to sell them to us? How are they changing? Are any of them shared?
More green photo essays here.