You can spread your soul over a paddy field, you can whisper to a mango tree, you can feel the earth between your toes and know that this is the place, the place where it begins and ends. But what can you tell to a pile of bricks? The bricks will not be moved (page 87).
Monica AliHer words were as sharp as an eyeful of sand. She never raised her voice. It was the kind of voice that never needed to be raised. It cut words to a fine point and launched them decisively (page 88).
Monica AliA pair of schoolchildren,pale as rice and loud as peacocks,cut over the road and hurtled down a side street,galloping with joy or else with terror (p. 55).
Monica AliIf God wanted us to ask questions, he would have made us men (page 80).
Monica AliThe air was hot and wet, as if it had absorbed the sweat of countless bodies. It dripped also with scandal.
Monica AliIn the rainy season, back home, when the land had given way to water and the buffaloes grew webbed feet, when the hens took to the roofs, when marooned goats teetered on minuscule islands, when the women splashed across on the raised walkway to the cooking hut and found they could no longer kindle a dung-and-husk fire and looked to their reserves, when the rain rang louder than cow bells, rice was the means, the giver of life.
Monica AliIn the only way that pain can be truly remembered, through a new pain.
Monica AliAnd so they entwined their lives to drink from the pools of each other’s sadness. From these special watering holes, each man drew strength.
Monica AliHe would not come again. This was good. No. This was bad. At least it was an end.
Monica AliI can’t stay,” said Chanu, and they clung to each other inside a sadness that went beyond words and tears, beyond that place, those causes and consequences, and became a part of their breath, their marrow, to travel with them from now to wherever they went.
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