The Fuschia Tree
Editor's Note.
In Idyllic (or IDLE-ic) Vermont, as the case may be, I spent a summer reading seven volumes of Proust and writing poetry. Why? I was asked by many. At my surprised glance back, the questions became more detailed: I mean, what is this for? What do you get out of it? Forced to answer, I resigned to the perfect eye-roll inciter: For the soul. Some appreciated the word's inherent lack of meaning and realized that I was purposefully (and paradoxically) taking time out to read for the sake of reading, to stretch time across a lake, leave it on a page, stuff it into a traffic cone. Others rolled their eyes.
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By Charu Maithani, Issue 11, Beauty And The Useless, September 2012

Also in this issue

Illusion: Seeing Beyond Seeing
Meaning: In Search of Significance.
Melody: A Different Tune
Rhythm: Ordering Time

Dhrupadi Ghosh is an old friend of mine. We have often had long sessions of adda late at night, discussing her dream projects since her college days at Santiniketan, where she majored in Sculpture.