Why couldn't she be part of that family? rent a room in someone else's life.

If you write a lovely story about India, you're criticized for selling an exotic version of India. And if you write critically about India, you're seen as portraying it in a negative light - it also seems to be a popular way to present India, sort of mangoes and beggars.

When I was growing up the publishing world seemed so far away. When my mother wrote a book, she would look up the address of publishers on the backs of the books she owned and send off her manuscript.

A man wasn't equal to an animal, not one particle of him. Human life was stinking corrupt, and meanwhile there were beautiful creatures who lived with delicacy on the earth without doing anyone harm. "We should be dying." the judge almost wept.

Saeed quickly found employment at a Banana Republic, where he would sell to urban sophisticates the black turtleneck of the season, in a shop whose name was synonymous with colonial exploitation and the rapacious ruin of the third world.

New York is a lovely city. It is an easy city to go back to and an easy city to leave. Every time I go there I immediately make travel plans.

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.

I'm always in the kitchen, cooking and experimenting - I love it. And every now and then I think, 'I should write a cookbook' or, 'I should write for food magazines.' And then I get drawn back to writing fiction again.

I love Truman Capote, Tennessee Williams, Flannery O'Connor. I read a lot of American writers.

The publishing world is very timid. Readers are much braver.

I feel as comfortable anywhere as I feel uncomfortable anywhere.

We think of immigration as a Western issue but, of course, it isn't.

The Indian diaspora is a wonderful place to write from and I am lucky to be part of it.

Slowly, painstakingly, like ants, men would make their paths and civilization and their wars once again, only to have it wash away again.

She'd have to propel herself into the future by whatever means possible or she'd be trapped forever in a place whose times had already passed.

Sadness was so claustrophobic.

No fruit dies so vile and offensive a death as the banana.

When you write on your own, you can write the extremes. No one else is watching and you can really go as far as you need to.

I do think that the modern India does belong to writers who are living in India.