Poem by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?

Langston Hughes


We met a warm old man, Jose . He came from Ecuador. He spoke spanish to us but his native language was Kichwa :The Quichua (Ethnonyms: Kichwa, Qquichua, Quechua, Kechua; Countries inhabited: Bolivia, Peru, Ecuador ; Language family: Andean Equatorial ;Language branch: Aymara-Quechua)
Originally from the mountains he sold caps and mittens on the street in Harvard . We spoke about marathi and he spoke about Kichwa. Learnt what we were called in each others languages sitting at the roadside peeping, leaning comfortably on each others shoulders when the other one wrote to explain the respective words and eventually worlds. It was a very informal and fulfilling experience in a relatively indifferent western world. I felt much reassured.Here are some pages.


Fuzzy Spheres

(Fuzzy Spheres, water colors and oil pastels on drawing paper)