“Motherhood means attachment. And today, as I sit at my desk, I tell myself each day, to love and let be; to appreciate but not advise; to converse as equals- listen more, not judge and coerce and pile my expectations onto their lives. Easy? Nah.
What are my expectations?”
She’s one of those old souls whose entry in our home is opening my heart to welcoming bounty and wellness. That’s who Kanika, my masseuse is.
Murakami’s construct leaves all of his stories open to a myriad interpretations, and that’s the beauty of his narrative.
He manages to etch distinct characters in each of his tales with remarkable dexterity and the Murakami mind observes quietly, much like the Lamprey, who live off life itself. I was agog by the sheer brilliance of an imagination that defies coherence yet draws you in, makes you believe.
Majumdar writes with great sensitivity- delving deep into the young lad’s mind, drawing from both the light and the dark that exist in tandem within. Ori senses the resentment his mother’s stage life provokes in others around him, the family and neighbours.
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