Isn't it strange how life won't flow, like a river, but moves in jumps, as if it were held back by locks that are opened now and then to let it jump forwards in a kind of flood?

Do you know anyone who would - secretly, sincerely, in his innermost self - really prefer to return to childhood?

The wheel turns and turns and turns: it never stops and stands still.

India is a curious place that still preserves the past, religions, and its history. No matter how modern India becomes, it is still very much an old country.

...the moon that hung over the garden like some great priceless pearl, flawed and blemished with grey shadowy ridges as only a very great beauty can risk being.

Isn't it strange how life won't flow, like a river, but moves in jumps, as if it were held back by locks that are opened now and then to let it jump forwards in a kind of flood?

I try to trace the connection between the characters and that way a story or plot emerges.