Meira Chand


In the year E.M. Forster published A Passage to India, my father was enduring an opposite voyage. The wind blew colder by degrees on his face, the sea tossed irritably beneath the ship in the Bay of Biscay. Although the sun paled visibly my father, looking up and ahead, discerned a glow behind douds that seemed brighter than any in India. He was on his way to England to study medicine.



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