Three-quarters of India lives on the edge of the market economy. You can't tell them that only those who can afford water can have it.

May in Ayemenem is a hot, brooding month. The days are long and humid. The river shrinks and black crows gorge on bright mangoes in still, dustgreen trees. Red bananas ripen. Jackfruits burst. Dissolute bluebottles hum vacuously in the fruity air. Then they stun themselves against clear windowpanes and die, fatly baffled in the sun.

At some stage, as the water tables are dropping and the minerals that remain in the mountains are being taken out, we are going to confront a crisis from which we cannot return. The people who created the crisis in the first place will not be the ones that come up with a solution.

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.

Another world is not only possible, she is on her way. On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing.

Non-violence is a piece of theatre. You need an audience. What can you do when you have no audience?

Excitement always leads to tears.