She'd have to propel herself into the future by whatever means possible or she'd be trapped forever in a place whose times had already passed.

We think of immigration as a Western issue but, of course, it isn't.

When he died, I went about like a ragged crow telling strangers, "My father died, my father died." My indiscretion embarrassed me, but I could not help it. Without my father on his Delhi rooftop, why was I here? Without him there, why should I go back? Without that ache between us, what was I made of?

When you write on your own, you can write the extremes. No one else is watching and you can really go as far as you need to.

Jemu watched his father disappear. He didn't throw the coconut and he didn't cry. Never again would he know love for another human being that wasn't adulterated by another, contradictory emotion.

The publishing world is very timid. Readers are much braver.

But then, how could you have any self-respect knowing that you didn't believe in anything exactly? How did you embrace what was yours if you didn't leave something for it? How did you create a life of meaning and pride?