ZimZalaBim
Minoli Salgado · 2025
The writers had started to vanish. Poof! Kazzam! Funtoosh! From homes and offices, film studios, TV stations and law courts, from universities, hospital beds, cars, internet cafés, library carrels, swimming pools, shopping malls, holding cells, photographs and lovers’ arms. They were disappearing so fast that whole districts became silent and bare. The smoke of vanishings was everywhere. Writers who were lawyers, doctors, writers who played the guitar and sang baila, writers who worked in banks, writers in schools, ringers of church bells, army deserters, cartoonists, charity workers, students, psychologists, ayurvedic practitioners, film-makers, knitting writers, cooking writers, gardening writers, tightrope-walkers and trapeze writers, fishing writers, writers who were diarists and scribblers and photographers, anyone who committed facts to paper or kept paper facts, writers of all hues and forms were disappearing as quickly and silently as the breath of passing cows.