"The blood of the Muslim citizens of Delhi flowed in the lanes, dripped into gutters and mixed with muddy rainwater. It blocked the sewers and flowed in the drains of either sides of lanes and road."
Over 70 years in, and so little changes. Except for the two sidedness of violence. But I will save that for another day.
Two worlds run parallel to each other in this novel, till they cannot. The narrative gives us a delightful, engaging account of bourgeoisie youth culture of 40s India. On the other, there is the foreshadow, then the playing out, of the "communal violence" that we know of so well (or do we?). The two intersect at points, the posh society men and women falling before guns and hate, and at other times, the presence of one sets off the other in its full grotesque potential. The language of the book is its only drawback- a little stilted, and the characters take a while to get used to, but on the whole, would highly recommend.