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

Sadness was so claustrophobic.

No fruit dies so vile and offensive a death as the banana.

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.

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

The present changes the past. Looking back you do not find what you left behind.

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.