my father turned 65 yesterday... i can't imagine him retired. I wonder how he's feeling, and i hate that i'm too far away to talk to him about it.

I'm surprised at how much i miss my parents. Being here makes me realize how wonderful they are. I can now appreciate that they were born and brought up in a society completely different from the one where they had to raise three children.

This world is oriented completely differently. Family vs. individual rights. I'm not sure which is better.

I know that sometimes here the lack of space makes my skin crawl. My blood jumps in my veins like it used to when i craved cigarettes. Here i crave space. I feel like i need to do a crazy dance down the street. i am choking on people

*

I can't decide if distance distills or distorts emotions.

*

I will not be producing a heartbreaking work of staggering genius, but here, I am plagued with Dave Eggers' syndrome. Our tragedy has somehow become public property. Perhaps all tragedies are inherently public, and i didn't realize that until now.

Thinking about how i live, about my fears, i realize that I expect that it was only the beginning; that more is to follow. I realize that the darkness is always only one step away.

In canada, it was easier to escape this certainty. Canadians don't live in fear. In India, it feels that for each person with money, there are 2 million with nothing. And everyone knows it. This is a world of metal grates. Uniformed guards. Triple locks. Sharing and magnification of occasions where everyone's worst fear came true.

I meet people and they seem to derive great pleasure from using the word 'murder' with relish. As in... the murder, i remember. What a tragedy, that murder. Have you met narcissa? She's the granddaughter. Of those people. From the murder. Double murder actually. Tragic. Have some more tea. I feel marked. Real or imagined? Probably some of both.

But now - and this is the weird part - i expect them to know. I expect the questions. I expect the looks (pity or curiosity? I think it's the latter) and if they don't know, some strange part of me wants to tell them. Do they not know who i am? Do they not understand what i've been through?

as though nothing bad ever happened to anyone else.

5:56 p.m. - 2003-09-13