My father was a good man, but he was a con man. He was a wanderer, nomadic.

Some take loneliness as a class of self study and some invest it in destracting many.

The orange of the golden carp appeared at the edge of the pond. . . . We watched in silence at the beauty and grandeur of the great fish. Out of the corners of my eyes I saw Cico hold his hand to his breast as the golden carp glided by. Then with a switch of his powerful tail the golden carp disappeared into the shadowy water under the thicket.

His gratitude widened his smile and bent his back.

Written By Arundhati Roy

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