Choosing battle is one thing, and quitting battle is cowardice and I can't imagine doing that

— Rohit Gore

He could not help but admire his posters every time he saw them---the son of a rickshaw puller, now the chief of a prominent political party in this town, who was expected to win by an unprecedented margin of votes in the coming elections. There were many people in the party who begrudged his presence, his power, but they could do nothing. The people of Arthur loved him and his speeches. Some people called them inflammatory, divisive, and harmful to the peace and harmony of the town. A smile spread across his face every time he heard that word. Has anything ever been achieved by harmony? What would the leaders do with harmony? Why would people come to listen to his speeches in droves if they wanted harmony? Elections can never be won by harmony.

— Rohit Gore

Sharif Milan: "I wish I did, though. Own some land, that is. My family owned it once when I was a young man. It's all gone now." Sharif Milan's eyes had a faraway look in them, as if he could still see the land. Avi: "Where did it go?" Sharif Milan: "We lost it during Partition. My family owned many farms in Punjab---the one in Pakistan." Avi: "But land does not go anywhere, does it?" Sharif Milan: "You are right. Land does not. It's not the people who go away. I know where my land is in Punjab. I can see it. Furthermore, I can walk on it. But it is not mine. Isn't that terrible? I can never forget the day when those land grabbers held my family at gunpoint and told me to leave. I didn't think I would have to leave the country.

— Rohit Gore

The real reason for Father Organza's laughter was the history of Arthur. It was a quaint town, nestled amidst barren mountains. The Hindus and Muslims living there were perpetually warring with each other, reacting violently at the slightest provocation. It had started a long time ago, this squabble, and had escalated into a terrible war. Some people say it started centuries ago, but many believe it started when the country gave one final, fierce shrug to rid itself of British rule. The shrug quickly became a relentless shuddering, and countless people were uprooted and flung into the air. Many didn't survive. Perhaps the mountains of Arthur absorbed the deaminating wave. People weren't cruelly plucked from the town. They remained there, festering, becoming irate and harboring murderous desires. And while the country was desperately trying to heal its near-mortal wounds and move on, Arthur's dormant volcano erupted. Momentary and overlooked, but devastating. Leaders emerged on both sides and, driven by greed, they fed off the town's ignored bloodshed. They created ravines out of cracks, fostered hatred and grew richer. The White family, the erstwhile rulers of the ancient town, adopted the legacy of their British rulers---divide and conquer.

— Rohit Gore

The three flower shops were obliterated. The petals of the once-dewy flowers and their sellers' flesh burnt together. The people reacted and, unlike the birds, they did not react in unison. They ran towards the narrow streets near the Masjid, trampling over the old and limping beggars. They pushed and shoved and cursed and cried. The birds circled in the air, pitying the humans who had lost their humanity.

— Rohit Gore