Winter 2002 • Vol. XXIV No. 1 FictionJanuary 1, 2002 |

Broadcasts from the Flood

All day there had been false alarms—Pushpa calling for somebody's address, Nalini with the news that her aunt from Calcutta had brought down a dozen saris, nothing seen in Bangalore shops, did she want to take a look? And then there was Mr. Krishnan, her husband, checking every hour to see if there was any news. When the call from Moorthy, their servant, finally came in the evening, Meera was under a piping hot shower, sunk in a brief hiatus from everything. The bathroom had fogged up and the red eye of the geyser glowed dimly in the washbasin mirror. She should switch off the geyser. She remembered reading about accidents, about overheated tanks exploding like bombs. The phone startled her. Its blunt, serrated croaking vibrated through the house. She could feel it with her feet. It went on and on. She was about to bang on the door when she heard Mr. Krishnan shouting to Moorthy, asking if there was any news. He had none. This much was clear even before she had switched of

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One out of Many

By Robert Arellano

All day there had been false alarms—Pushpa calling for somebody's address, Nalini with the news that her aunt from Calcutta had brought down a dozen saris, nothing seen in Bangalore […]

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