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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 8, Number 4, December 2014


Paresh Tiwari
Hyderabad, Telangana, India


The book market next to Flora Fountain in Mumbai is a drop of sunny silence in this grim grey city. While the world races past in a blur of heat and smoke, the yellowed pages of volumes stacked in teetering rows under a crinkly tarp, await their next lover.

Today, I spend hours browsing through them with an unabashed hunger. Each time I pick up a book and wake it from its dusty siesta, I wonder about the hands that caressed its spines, scribbled in its margins, or pressed a dry leaf between its pages. I imagine stories, not of the characters who the writer introduces in long tortuous sentences, but of an old man, who peered at these words from behind thick glasses or the young girl who liked to hold the book close to her heart while drifting off to sleep.

I think of the lives, lost forever as the ink fades and the seams break apart.

window moon . . .
the deep red of
a hooker's lips



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