Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

We are, as a species, addicted to story. Even when the body goes to sleep, the mind stays up all night, telling itself stories

KANAI SPOTTED HER the moment he stepped onto the crowded platform: he was deceived neither by her close-cropped black hair nor by her clothes

There was no bindi on her forehead and her arms were free of bangles and bracelets,

It occurred to him suddenly that perhaps, despite her silver ear stud and the tint of her skin, she was not Indian, except by descent.

the neatly composed androgyny of her appearance seemed out of place, almost exotic.

Although unmarried, he was, as he liked to say, rarely single:

Nirmal had smiled in surprise. “What did you expect? A jungle?”

But there are so many people here!”

thirty years had gone by since

When people praised him for his linguistic abilities, his response was usually to say that a good ear and a good memory were all it took to learn a language,