Bijoy Venugopal

Maybe there are just more people where a few could laugh and shout. Once the laughter and shouting rang in the air, and we savoured the spaces we had. Now it’s absorbed by other bodies of flesh and blood and tags and bytes. And maybe we have to shout louder to be heard, and laugh louder . . . → Read More:

Fret not, brethren, help is at hand for the roach-infested home.

One week ago, I noticed the first acceptable sign of life on my white-tiled kitchen floor.

Not the tiny black ants that continue to thunder subsonically across the floor in armies, raiding my sugar and picking through the variegated crumbs.

Not the tiny red ants that . . . → Read More: The God of smaller things