unless

Tried reading the last pages of Unless but a splitting headache hasn't helped. Little darling r is up so I have to put the book down now and then. She looks up at the patch of light on the ceiling, fascinated by its quivering stillness. Outside the sky is full of brilliantly lit clouds, a full array of different types, you think to yourself. Is that possible? A greyish, two-dimensional helicopter flies in and out of view; there are people in that miniature world. The top leaves of a tall tree rustle and sway, with their own peculiar movement, as if they were living their own life, in their own time, independent of the events that come and pass below... r holds on to meeoow ever so tightly, dreamily...

You remember a spat you had with M and wonder why it came to that. At cross-purposes, I guess. Then again, this seems to be a recurrent theme: your remarkable ability to piss people off.

Maybe not gender-specific since old K. K. got a real blasting as well. In both instances you suspect there's an underlying presumption that a Muslim has to, simply has to, have regressive views. But something said was quite revealing, beyond that: why did I use the word "he", never "she"; or mankind instead of humankind or womankind. Why was that? Is there some deep-rooted prejudice that men harbour against women? Given the levels of violence, the types of violence-Congo, Bosnia, Gujarat etc.- you'd have to say there's something to that-unless you want to ignore the record. That it's more than that: there's a savage misogyny as well.

The main theme. Of course. But something else as well; about how things are destined to break, about how fragile and tenuous the bonds that link one life to another, stranger to stranger, really are. The small, comforting curvatures in life that we seek and find; curvature as the primal symbol of our humanity, our generosity, our refuge...Goodness doesn't last. That most enigmatic of words in the English language: good. Good for nothing; good grief.

'Our habits are so familiar ; they're like the interiors of uncurtained houses at night, a reassuring wedge of known lamplight, a corner of a familiar ceiling cornice, a wall of books, the top of a wing chair, always there, the same arrangements.'

Ramzan in summer once again. You can't but help think of the last time. Ten days back each year so that makes 30-odd years. And you instinctively think of the next time it will come around. Where everyone will be. The stars quietly ticking on, too vast and too small to be of interest. We mimic their indifference.