The Far Field

by Madhuri Vijay

It was the single most devastating habit she had, to withdraw, to take back the thrilling gift of her joy as casually as she bestowed it.

I find that different languages are useful for different things. For instance, it is best to write poetry in Urdu. Urdu words are made for poetry and songs. For stories, Kashmiri is the best.” “And English?” “English?” He smiled. “English is excellent for signboards and maps.”

I could tell was that there was a river close by. I could hear the pounding, the full weight of water on earth.

The mountains were now the darkest blue I’d ever seen; the sky above them was a powdery lavender.

This brought me to my own experiences and memories of being in the mountains, in their majesty.

I had yet to understand just how many shapes a person’s desire could take, and how few of them, in the end, took the shape of the body.

a trick I’d learned from my mother. To keep approval in reserve, to lead with mockery and distrust, for to reveal affection was to reveal weakness.

with a door in his heart that sometimes falls open without warning, causing him to suddenly wander away from his friends, from his mother, to seek out a solitude in which he can wrestle with the dark whisperings of his heart.

the promise of suspension, however brief.

I’m more interested in the moment when the switch snaps, when a person realizes she must do something, or die as she is.

never manages to muster the courage that true friendship requires.