““Could he leave all that? Could he ever really leave India? Would he ever be anything but an alien in any other country? With his head here, his heart in India and his skin set on fire by the gaze of strangers, could he ever leave forever the smell of woodsmoke and jasmine on a winter's night? The stars, often so many of them that there seemed a rainfall of light. And the night itself spread like a dark blue wanton. Dawn and the sun rising like an explosion of softness. A hundred ruins weeping silently amidst the thunder and dust of everyday life. The sheer bliss of being home, of walking the streets amidst littered scraps of humanity, amidst cows and garbage, yet totally content at being home, being where you belonged, where no man looked at you twice on the streets in question.””
