When Khubchand, his beloved, blind, bald, incontinent seventeen-year-old mongrel, decided to stage a miserable, long-drawn-out death, Estha nursed him through his final ordeal as though his own life somehow depended on it. In the last months of his life, Khubchand, who had the best of intentions but the most unreliable of bladders, would drag himself to the top-hinged dog-flap built into the bottom of the door that led out into the back garden, push his head through it and urinate unsteadily, bright yellowly, inside Then with bladder empty and conscience clear he would look up at Estha with opaque green eyes that stood in his grizzled skull like scummy pools and weave his way back to his damp cushion, leaving wet footprints on the floor. As Khubchand lay dying on his cushion, Estha could see the bedroom window reflected in his smooth, purple balls. And the sky beyond. And once a bird that flew across. To Estha - steeped in the smell of old roses, blooded on memories of a broken man - the fact that something so fragile, so unbearably tender had survived, had been allowed to exist, was a miracle. A bird in flight reflected in an old dog's balls. It made him smile out loud.

لقد تم التلاعب باحلامنا .نحن لا ننتمي الى اي مكان.نحن نبحر دون رسو في بحار متلاطمه.
وقد لايُسمح لنا أبداً بالتوجه إلى الشاطئ.أشجاننا لن تكون حزينة كفاية .
أفراحنا لن تكون سعيدة كفاية.وحيواتنا لن تكون مهمة كفاية.لتؤثّر

painted in weather-colors now. With brushes dipped in nature’s palette. Mossgreen. Earth-brown.