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

Why couldn't she be part of that family? rent a room in someone else's life.

I love Truman Capote, Tennessee Williams, Flannery O'Connor. I read a lot of American writers.

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

The Indian diaspora is a wonderful place to write from and I am lucky to be part of it.

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?

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?