I do think that the modern India does belong to writers who are living in India.
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.
Why couldn't she be part of that family? rent a room in someone else's life.
No fruit dies so vile and offensive a death as the banana.
The publishing world is very timid. Readers are much braver.
Slowly, painstakingly, like ants, men would make their paths and civilization and their wars once again, only to have it wash away again.