Over the course of fourteen visits to India, I couldn’t help but become aware of the effect of time.
In my last book I wrote of Kolkata - When something is new in this pollution-wrapped metropolis, it is aged; becoming tired even before completion. Recently constructed multi-hued condominiums soon weather and discolour; covered by depressingly invasive and corrosive grime; it being only a matter of time before they are replaced and ultimately forgotten.
Though not so in-my-face I can see time weaving its magic disappearing trick here in Fyansford. Guess that’s life!
However, it delights me when I get warming responses to blog posts – That’s my dad…. Yes, it is my father… Think it might be my dad… It is definitely My Dad….
For another example see: Maskell’s Farm
