In the middle of a dream I am being roused: 'Shruti ... Shruti ... ' My name sounds like a wail. Above mine, an ancient face leans, with eyes that have been sucked into their sockets; cheeks, caved in. A frayed hand grips my shoulder and shakes it hard: 'Shruti, Shruti ... I forgot my medicines ... '
Bhatia, Ritu, Days Past, Kunapipi, 17(2), 1995.