She had died seventeen years ago, when Biju was five, slipping from a tree while gathering leaves to feed the goat. An accident, they said, and there was nobody to blame--it was just fate in the way fate has of providing the destitute with a greater quota of accidents for which nobody can be blamed.--Kiran Desai, The Inheritance of Loss
The reason I like any novel written by a brown person, I've concluded, is because all scenes will remind me of Sri Lanka, all old women will remind me of my grandmother, all old men will remind me of my grandfather, all couples will remind me of my parents, and every sentence will be a critique of the class/caste system.
My grandmother died ten years, one month, and two days ago. Today my daddy said he dreams about her nightly.
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