Indian writers have always been some of my favorite. From Jhumpa Lahiri and Arundhati Roy, to R.K. Narayan, there’s some similar thread that draws them all into a realm I like to call “great cultural writers.” Manil Suri’s depiction of a vagrant living on the steps of an apartment building (loosely based on a true encounter) and the lives who intersect his, is as vivid as any of the fictional lives from fellow writers of his ilk.
“The steam rises lazily from the surface of the tea. It is thick with the aroma of boiled milk, streaked with the perfume of cardamom and clove. It wisps and curls and rises and falls, tracing letters from some fleeting alphabet.”
-The Death of Vishnu
