The main character knows his father, Gosh, is terminally
ill. “I spent as much time as I could with Ghosh. I wanted every bit of wisdom
he could impart to me. All sons should write down every word of what their
fathers have to say to them. I tried. Why did it take an illness for me to
recognize the value of time with him? It seems we humans never learn. And so we
relearn the lesson every generation and then want to write epistles. We
proselytize to our friends and shake them by the shoulders and tell them,
“Seize the day! What matters is this moment!”
Most of us can’t go back and make restitution. We can’t do a thing about our
should haves and our could haves. But a few lucky men like Ghosh never have
such worries; there was no restitution he needed to make, no moment he failed
to seize. Now and then Ghosh would grin and wink at me across the room. He was
teaching me how to die, just as he’d taught me how to live.
A young boy has an operation and says of the operating room:
“The place left a strong impression on the boy. It was otherworldly, hallowed
ground, but still secular. The name “theater” was fitting.”
The main character comes across the original sculpture that
his birth mother loved and had a print of over her desk. He had spent his
childhood almost thinking of her as
that sculpture. He is with his mother, Hema: "We lit candles. Hema fell to her
knees, the flame throwing a flickering light on her face. Her lips moved. She
believed in every kind of deity, and in reincarnation and resurrection-she knew
no contradictions in the areas. How I admired her faith, her lack of
self-consciousness—a Hindu lighting candles to a Carmelite nun in a Catholic
church.
The main character finds something he’s been
looking for for many years: “How like Ghosh this was! … Ghosh trusted me to do
whatever it is I would choose to do [with the object]. That, too, is love. He’d
been dead more than a quarter century and he was still teaching me about the
trust that comes only from true love.”