He was sorry for himself as well, for he was doomed to find life and identity in death letters.

With kings and queens inside his bag. Hulaki was a man of power.

Once again, mules and their attendants would give him company. Often he thought he and the mules had no difference. Both carried other's loads.

Doomed are the hotheads! Unhappy are they who lose their cool and are too proud to say, "I'm sorry."

When you break up, your whole identity is shattered. It's like death.

When he died, I went about like a ragged crow telling strangers, "My father died, my father died." My indiscretion embarrassed me, but I could not help it. Without my father on his Delhi rooftop, why was I here? Without him there, why should I go back? Without that ache between us, what was I made of?