It’s amazing how sometimes one can relate, so effortlessly, to a work of fiction. As if it were tailor-made to describe one’s situation, and not just the context in which the author intended. What the author meant could be another story altogether. But these eyes, they read between the lines; to the extent that what the author meant is no longer a point of consideration. This mind, it wants to interpret it in the way it would like to; twisted and twirled in a context of its own. No, not just pure imagination. But that of reality, which has far eluded the reader. This heart, it seeks solace.. 

Some words of yours to me suggested

How, through the fog of peace and war,

A pulse beat on, that, strained and tested,

No loss could mute, nor sorrow mar.

To trace this pulse through its confusions,

Illusions, allusions, elusions.

And limn its complex graph of love,

No skein of words is fine enough.

Does this half filial endeavor

Hold half a chance of half-success –

Even to track your lives, much less

Not to let these recede forever?

No, if I’d hoped to grasp the whole;

Yes, if some shard may touch the soul.

- Vikram Seth, "To Shanti Uncle and Aunty Henny" in Two Lives.