Githa Hariharan


The next time Gopu was late, I was ready. I had spent days cleaning up the house- throwing things away, repacking Mangala-Jameela's fragile legacy of distant landscapes, other frayed mementos I considered valuable, putting everything in order. Just m case, I said to myself. It is too late for me to try and leave my sentences unfinished, so I must try to clarify that. Am I, I asked myself over and over again, Mani's teacher and guard1an? Let me relegate the opportunities of son, husband, father, to the1r rightful place m the past; let them slip through my fingers into my dreams. But at the risk of repeating myself, (a risk that seems part of both old age and solitude}, am I a teacher, a valuable member of the community?



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