I greeted autumn with bitterness this year. Toronto deprived me of it for longer and only provided a mediocre season. The trees were barely colourful, and they struggled to rescue me from all my burdens. In envying my welcoming reception of autumn last year, I’ve begun seeing today’s autumn as a foe.
Even though Whereabouts validated my pessimism around the impact of these diasporas in recent works of Indian fiction, Ghosh’s Gun Island, in an intrinsically antonymous manner, enthralled me with adoration for works set in India.