I’ve been reading Vikram Chandra’s lush, glorious first novel “Red Earth and Pouring Rain”. And page 19 the following passage struck me like lightening on a tuning rod. And so I thought it only fitting to share:
“I tried to cast my mind back and bring up memories that could be transmuted into stories, but could only think of the richness of the world, of its verdant profusion — the delightful perfume that issues from queen-of-the-night as its flowers slowly open, the croaking of frogs, the silver tops of the moon and they mysterious shadows, the swaying of the tree-tops and the way voices carry at night, the way a soft hip fills the palm of a hand, solid and comforting. Overpowered, I thought: we are blessed, and how strange it is that we can learn to hate even this, that we forsake these gifts and seek release; the sheets are cool and smooth below me, and this I am grateful for, I can feel the breath slide in and out of me, and this I am grateful for; surely, this must be enough, to feel these things and to know that all this exists together, the earth and its seas, the sky and its suns.”
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