Monday, 22 December 2008


If my grandaunt were still alive, she'd scorn at me for being an overly sentimental fool.
If my grandmother knew what I love, she'd laugh with me and cry with me and angst with me and touch my cheek the way she always did.

From The Far Pavillions:
The whisper of dry grass and casurina fronds stirring in the breeze. The hoot of an owl and the scutter of some small nocturnal animal foraging around a clump of pampas. The chirr of a cricket and the flitter of a bat's wing and from somewhere very far away, the sound that is the night song of all India - the howl of a jackal's pack.
p. 309

Read it!!

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