Could fulfillment ever be felt as deeply as loss? Romantically she decided that love must surely reside in the gap between desire and fulfillment, in the lack, not the contentment. Love was the ache, the anticipation, the retreat, everything around it but the emotion itself.

Slowly, painstakingly, like ants, men would make their paths and civilization and their wars once again, only to have it wash away again.

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.

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

I feel as comfortable anywhere as I feel uncomfortable anywhere.

If you write a lovely story about India, you're criticized for selling an exotic version of India. And if you write critically about India, you're seen as portraying it in a negative light - it also seems to be a popular way to present India, sort of mangoes and beggars.

A journey once begun, has no end