In this, I too become a daughter of Sarkhan. A baptism by flecks of river water, by two cold hands that reach to grip my own.
Two sisters, birthed from the fissure where land twists violently into a muddy, wet gash. The first, a ragged form, watching from the trees.
How to write this world. Its tangled jungles, mangrove roots. Its dengues and malarial fevers.
I wondered if my former wife, who keeps her motives close to her vest, meant something by choosing this particular book. There are themes that might have appealed to her: the absent, sainted mother, an unambiguous warning about second marriages, the fecklessness of fathers.