Then they stun themselves against clear windowpanes and die, fatly baffled in the sun. The nights are clear, but suffused with sloth and sullen expectation. But by early June the southwest monsoon breaks and there are three months of wind and water with short spells of sharp, glittering sunshine that thrilled children snatch to play with. The countryside turns an immodest green. Boundaries blur as tapioca fences take root and bloom.
Brick walls turn moss green .
Pepper vines snake up electric poles. Wild creepers burst through laterite banks and spill across the flooded roads. Arundhati Roy muses about the nuclear tests conducted by India, her success and being Indian. I like Arundhati Roy more because of this article than the fiction. Not so poetic rejoinder by B.G Varghese and Roy's response .