A gecko on the ceiling in the yellow adobe house at the foot of the dune, a scorpion about to enter my boots on the floor. The tear of a dew drop. A breath from the window opening moves the light white cloth that covers me on my wooden cot. How I wish that this breath of air would never end. It could put a stop to the scorching hot day that is about to begin and might deter the figures in black cloaks and hoods that are after me. I’ve fled to this place from society, and society wants me to return what I owe. Everything is borrowed. It’s only just and equitable that the black figures will come and get me.
– Surendra Sparsh (© 2007)