One Hand, Five Homes. A

A Writer Has To True To Him Or Herself. Period. That’s It!

On The Screen I Saw Tanks Rolling Through Dusty Streets, And Fallen Buildings, And Forests Of Unfamiliar Trees Into Which East Pakistani Refugees Had Fled, Seeking Safety Over The Indian Border.

The Knowledge Of Death Seemed Present In Both Sisters-it Was Something About The Way They Carried Themselves, Something That Had Broken Too Son And Had Not Mended, Marking Them In Spite Of Their Lightheartedness.

In New York I Was Always So Scared Of Saying That I Wrote Fiction. It Just Seemed Like, 'who Am I To Dare To Do That Thing Here? The Epicenter Of Publishing And Writers?' I Found All That Very Intimidating And Avoided Writing As A Response.

There Were Times Ruma Felt Closer To Her Mother In Death Than She Had In Life, An Intimacy Born Simply Of Thinking Of Her So Often, Of Missing Her. But She Knew That This Was An Illusion, A Mirage, And That The Distance Between Them Was Now Infinite, Unyielding.