It's Amazing. The Moment You Show Cash,

Like Most Of My Friends In School, I Was A Member Of Multiple Circulating Libraries; And All Of Us, To Begin With, Borrowed And Read The Same Things.

Like Most People Who Live In India, I Complain About Corruption, But Know That I Can Live With Corrupt Men. It Is The Honest Ones I Secretly Worry About.

Any Good Society Survives On A Circulation Of Favours.

A Rich Man's Body Is Like A Premium Cotton Pillow, White And Soft And Blank. ''ours'' Is Different. My Father's Spine Was A Knotted Rope, The Kind That Women Use In Villages To Pull Water From Wells; The Clavicle Curved Around His Neck In High Relief, Like A Dog's Collar; Cuts And Nicks And Scars, Like Little Whip Marks In His Flesh, Ran Down His Chest And Waist, Reaching Down Below His Hip Bones Into His Buttocks. The Story Of A Poor Man's Life Is Written On His Body, In A Sharp Pen.

Greenwich Village Always Had Its Share Of Mind Readers, But There Are Many More These Days, And They Seem To Have Moved Closer To The Mainstream Of Life In The City. What Was Crazy 10 Years Ago Is Now Respectable, Even Among The Best-educated New Yorkers.