Perhaps it's true that things can change in a day. That a few dozen hours can affect the outcome of whole lifetimes. And that when they do, those few dozen hours, like the salvaged remains of a burned house---the charred clock, the singed photograph, the scorched furniture---must be resurrected from the ruins and examined. Preserved. Accounted for. Little events, ordinary things, smashed and reconstitutred. Imbued with new meaning. Suddenly they become the bleached bones of a story.

Thousands are losing their jobs and homes, while corporations are being bailed out with billions of dollars.

Terrorism is the symptom, not the disease.

Here they learned to Wait. To Watch. To think thoughts and not voice them.

Many people have accused me of having a romantic view, whereas I personally I feel sorry for those who have lost romance in their lives.

As a woman who grew up in a village in India, I've spent my whole life fighting tradition. There's no way that I want to be a traditional Indian housewife.

I am a Maoist sympathiser. I'm not a Maoist ideologue, because the communist movements in history have been just as destructive as capitalism.