Writing, For Me, Means Humility. It’s A

All Day, The Colors Had Been Those Of Dusk, Mist Moving Like A Water Creature Across The Great Flanks Of Mountains Possessed Of Ocean Shadows And Depths.

But Then, How Could You Have Any Self-respect Knowing That You Didn't Believe In Anything Exactly? How Did You Embrace What Was Yours If You Didn't Leave Something For It? How Did You Create A Life Of Meaning And Pride?

I Love Truman Capote, Tennessee Williams, Flannery O'connor. I Read A Lot Of American Writers.

I Do Think That The Modern India Does Belong To Writers Who Are Living In India.

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.