The roofscape is not just the setting but a world in itself. It's the reference point for the magic realism which swirls the family relationships in a whirlpool of suspicion, loyalty, loss, and memories suppressed or ghosted by age or dementia, you can never be sure which …. All respect for the translator’s skill in conveying such dreamlike, uncertain, flow-of-consciousness language from Hindi.
Hate. I want hatred for her to fill my heart. As if I'm afraid that some other emotion buried underneath all my hatred for her - something softer, with a touch of pity, or the memory of childhood closeness - might start thinking it's time to resurface.
Save me, Chachcho, from all that's happened in this life and is threatening to become real.
Who knows what will be revealed when these old sandstorms settle.
Think of something else, I tell my anxious heart, think of laughter, of crying, anything else. I get up defiantly, leaving the food half-eaten. Don't be silly now, choose your mother once and for all, the one who gave shelter to your soul, not the one who is a hurt, blemished, diseased part of your body, whom you're not talking to and should never talk to.
