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Add to cart. Ronken Lynton , Hardcover. Be the first to write a review About this product. About this product Product Information Two hundred fifty pages of laugh-out-loud stories, along with insights to ponder, and enough exotica to keep you marveling at the many ways people put worthwhile lives together. That's Veiled Destinies; Lynton, the author, has spent more than twenty years in India. Landing there as a fearful outsider, she managed to become an insider and tells about that transition with grace and pace. Arranged marriages, one-word divorce, geckoes as mosquito control, remodeling a house with two-feet thick granite walls, staying home on full moon nights when pregnant, living with cobras, curries, and djinns it's all there.

Additional Product Features Publication Year. Show More Show Less. Any Condition Any Condition. No ratings or reviews yet. Be the first to write a review. Best Selling in Nonfiction See all. Unfreedom of The Press by Mark R. This is history's bitter arrogance, this moment of the bone's freedom. I wish to summon you in defence, but the grave's damp and cold, now when Malhar longs to stitch the rain, wrap you in its notes: you elude completely.

The rain doesn't speak, and life, once again, closes in, reasserting this earth where the air meets in a season of grief. Quick, by the pomegranate— the bird will say—Humankind can bear everything. Its voice returns in spring, a plaintive cry. Where are you? Come back.

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Is history deaf there, across the oceans? Mirror after mirror, textiled by dust, will blind us to our return as we light oil lamps. Their wish was we return—forever! A gift to glass, that city's name.

‘Behind the Veil of the Forest’ in India - The New York Times

What else breaks? A lover's pain! But happiness? Must it, too, bring pain? Question I may ask because of a night by ice-sculptures, all my words sylvanite under one gaze that filled my glass with pain. That thirst haunts as does the fevered dancing, flames dying among orchids flown in from Sing- apore!

Sing then, not of the promising but the Promised End. Of what final pain, what image of that horror can I sing? To be forgotten the most menacing! Those "Houseboat Days in the Vale of Kashmir," for instance, in ' Did they sing just of love then, or was love witnessing its departure for other thirsts the glass of Dal Lake ruffled half by "Satin Glass," that chandeliered boat barely focusing on emptiness last half of any night?

In Lahore the chanteuse crooned "Stop the Night" the groom's request--after the banquet. Night, that Empress, is here, your bride. She will sing! Her limbs break like chrysanthemums. O Night, what hints have been passed in the sky tonight? The stars so quiet, what galaxies of pain leave them unable to prophesy this night? With a rending encore, she closed the night.

There was, like this, long ago in Kashmir, a moment after a concert outside Kashmir Book Shop that left me stranded, by midnight, in a hotel mirror. Would someone glass me in from what? Filled, I emptied my glass, lured by a stranger's eyes into their glass. There, nothing melted, as in Lahore's night: Heat had brought sweat to the lip of my glass but sculptures kept iced their aberrant glass. To be forgotten my most menacing image of the End expelled from the glass of someone's eyes as if no full-length glass had held us, safe, from political storms? Pain, then, becomes love's thirst the ultimate pain to lose a stranger!

In the Casmir and Poison and Brut air, my rare Cashmere thrown off, the stranger knew my arms are glass, that banished from Eden on earth: Kashmir into the care of storms it rains in Kashmir, in Lahore, and here in Amherst tonight , in each new body I would drown Kashmir. A brigadier says, The boys of Kashmir break so quickly, we make their bodies sing, on the rack, till no song is left to sing. The century is ending. It is pain from which love departs into all new pain: Freedom's terrible thirst, flooding Kashmir, is bringing love to its tomented glass.

Stranger, who will inherit the last night of the past? Of what shall I not sing, and sing? So what white will the heart wear till the soul is its own blood-filled crystal ruby refuge for a fugitive angel? Behold how to hide one must. On one famous occasion, at Barcelona airport, he was stopped by a security guard just as he was about to board a plane. A refugee, I'll be paroled in real time. Cool evidence clawed off like shirts of hell-fire? A former existence untold in real time The one you would choose: Were you led then by him? What longing, O Yaar , is controlled in real time?

Each syllable sucked under waves of our earth— The funeral love comes to hold in real time! They left him alive so that he could be lonely— The god of small things is not consoled in real time. Salvation was bought but sin sold in real time. And who is the terrorist, who the victim?

I heard the incessant dissolving of silk— I felt my heart growing so old in real time. Her heart must be ash where her body lies burned. What hope lets your hands rake the cold in real time? You learn your strange fate: you were exiled by exiles. You open the heart to list unborn galaxies. Don't shut that folder when Earth is filed by exiles.

Before Night passes over the wheat of Egypt, let stones be leavened, the bread torn wild by exiles. Crucified Mansoor was alone with the Alone: God's loneliness -- just His -- compiled by exiles. Tell me who's tonight the Physician of Sick Pearls? Only you as you sit, Desert child, by exiles. Match Majnoon he kneels to pray on a wine-stained rug or prayer will be nothing, distempered mild by exiles. Swear not by Art but, dear Oscar Wilde, by exiles.

Don't weep, we'll drown out the Calls to Prayer, O Saqi -- I'll raise my glass before wine is defiled by exiles. Was -- after the last sky -- this the fashion of fire: autumn's mist pressed to ashes styled by exiles? If my enemy's alone and his arms are empty, give him my heart silk-wrapped like a child by exiles.

Will you, Beloved Stranger, ever witness Shahid -- two destinies at last reconciled by exiles? Mansoor: Mansoor al-Hallaj, a great mystic who was crucified for saying "I am the truth" Majnoon: lit. So enter our houses, conquerors, and drink the wine of our mellifluous Mouwashah. We are the night at midnight, and no horseman will bring dawn from the sanctuary of the last Call to Prayer… Our tea is green and hot; drink it.

Our pistachios are fresh; eat them. The beds are of green cedar, fall on them, following this long siege, lie down on the feathers of our dreams.

Veiled Destinies: Learning To Live In India

The sheets are crisp, perfumes are ready by the door, and there are plenty of mirrors: enter them so we may exit completely. Soon we will search in the margins of your history, in distant countries, for what was once our history.

And in the end we will ask ourselves: Was Andalusia here or there? On the land…or in the poem? Mouwashah: characteristic form of Andalusian poetry, recited and sung. Still performed through-out the Arab world. What hopes the earth forever covers, what faces?

I too could recall moonlit roofs, those nights of wine - But Time has shelved them now in Memory's dimmed places She has left forever, let blood flow from my eyes till my eyes are lamps lit for love's darkest places. All is his - Sleep, Peace, Night - when on his arm your hair shines to make him the god whom nothing effaces. With wine, the palm's lines, believe me, rush to Life's stream - Look, here's my hand, and here the red glass it raises. Beaten by sorrow, man is numbed to pain.

Grief has become the pain only pain erases. World, should Ghalib keep weeping you will see a flood drown your terraced cities, your marble palaces. The river wears its skin of light And I trace love's loss to the origin of light. My book's been burned? Send me the ashes, so I can say: I've been sent the phoenix in a coffin of light. From history tears learn a slanted understanding of the human face torn by blood's bulletin of light. It was a temporal thought.

Well, it has vanished. Will Prometheus commit the mortal sin of light?

“Indian Camp” – A Story in Disguise

She said, "My name is icicles coming down from it When I go off alone, as if listening for God, there's absolutely nothing I can win of light. Now everything's left to the imagination -- a djinn has deprived even Aladdin of light. In Arabic A language of loss? I have some business in Arabic. Love letters: a calligraphy pitiless in Arabic. At an exhibit of miniatures, what Kashmiri hairs! Each paisley inked into a golden tress in Arabic. This much fuss about a language I don't know? So one day perfume from a dress may let you digress in Arabic. Majnoon, by stopped caravans, rips his collars, cries "Laila!

Writes Shammas: Memory, no longer confused, now is a homeland— his two languages a Hebrew caress in Arabic. When Lorca died, they left the balconies open and saw: On the sea his qasidas stitched seamless in Arabic. Ah, bisexual Heaven: wide-eyed houris and immortal youths!

To your each desire the say Yes! O Yes! For that excess of sibilance, the last Apocalypse, so pressing those three forms of S in Arabic. I too, O Amichai, saw everything, just like you did— In Death. In Hebrew. And please let me stress in Arabic. Who lies beneath your spell tonight? I beg for haven: Prisons, let open your gates — A refugee from Belief seeks a cell tonight.

Gandhi wanted women to 'resist' sex for pleasure

Mughal ceilings, let your mirrored convexities multiply me at once under your spell tonight. Executioners near the woman at the window. Damn you, Elijah, I'll bless Jezebel tonight. The hunt is over, and I hear the Call to Prayer fade into that of the wounded gazelle tonight. This is mere insult, this is no farewell tonight. And I, Shahid, only am escaped to tell thee— God sobs in my arms. Call me Ishmael tonight. Do your friends know where you are? It was perhaps during the Bangladesh War, perhaps there were sirens, air-raid warnings. But the audience, hushed, did not stir.

The microphone was dead, but she went on singing, and her voice was coming from far away, as if she had already died. And just before the lights did flood her again, melting the frost of her diamond into rays, it was, like this turning dark of fog, a moment when only a lost sea can be heard… The Country without a Post Office The Blessed Word: A Prologue Farewell At a certain point I lost track of you. You needed me.

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You needed to perfect me: In your absence you polished me into the Enemy. Your history gets in the way of my memory. I am everything you lost. Your perfect enemy. Your memory gets in the way of my memory… There is nothing to forgive.


There is everything to forgive. If only somehow you could have been mine, what would not have been possible in the world?