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?

You lived intensely with others, only to have them disappear overnight, since the shadow class was condemned to movement. The men left for other jobs, towns, got deported, returned home, changed names. Sometimes someone came popping around a corner again, or on the subway then they vanished again. Addresses, phone numbers did not hold. The emptiness Biju felt returned to him over and over, until eventually he made sure not to let friendships sink deep anymore.

Writing, for me, means humility. It’s a process that involves fear and doubt, especially if you’re writing honestly.

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

When I was growing up the publishing world seemed so far away. When my mother wrote a book, she would look up the address of publishers on the backs of the books she owned and send off her manuscript.

I don't think you can write according to a set of rules and laws; every writer is so different.

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.