“And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.”

“My identity is without root.”

“When he died, I went about like a ragged crow telling strangers, "My father died, my father died." My indiscretion embarrassed me, but I could not help it. Without my father on his Delhi rooftop, why was I here? Without him there, why should I go back? Without that ache between us, what was I made of?”

“I only know that you are the breath in my lungs, the beat of my heart, the ache in my soul, and without you, I am empty.”

“I forgot my watch. Minutes or hours later, when the panic subsides, that is what I most regret. Not coming here in the first place - that seemed like an obvious choice - but my bare wrist, which makes it impossible for me to know how long I have been sitting in this room. My back aches, which is some indication, but it is not definite enough.”

“But he was here. In my bed. His body warm and hard and feeling so much like home that I ached.”