It is literature’s task to record with an unblinking, democratic eye, both our triumphs and failures as individuals as well as a collective
Each August, and not only on Independence Day, there are reminders of another August many years ago. August, 1947.
A documentary being broadcast on television, an article in a magazine or an ad about friends reunited after fifty years, a commentator judging once again the ambitions of men like Gandhi and Jinnah, a new film, a tear-jerker about love blooming like a flower among the gravestones.
It is the same each year. We remember, and in remembering one thing or another,