What They Really Sought
The carcass of a whale washes ashore. A motorcycle goes up in flames. An ageing sailor carries a shotgun to a wisdom house. The sun gleams from the laptops facing the sea. And thus, stitching together the fragments of lucid dreams, my novel Seekers took shape. For the most part, it lacked coherence. In Seekers, the inhabitants here are neither participants nor spectators. They live on the edge — of their own making, out of their own compulsion. We find Ved, Peter, and the others who...
