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.

I do think that the modern India does belong to writers who are living in India.

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

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.

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.

I feel as comfortable anywhere as I feel uncomfortable anywhere.

Sadness was so claustrophobic.