Abha Dawesar's debut novel, Babyji, is one of those books I meant to pick up when it came out a few years ago but didn't until recently. And I'm glad I did; it's a precise definition of reading for pleasure:
"What are you thinking about?" she asked as she pulled the covers over herself.
"How quantum physics applies to life," I said curtly.
"Tell me about it."
"Wave, particle, wave, particle. One falls in and out of love as if one is jumping over a skipping rope," I said.
"Are you in or out at the moment?" India asked.
I thought her question was very clever. I was out when I had started talking about it. But talking about love made me love her.
She slid closer to me.
"One can never know one's position with any certainty," I said.
Her coming closer had made me very hot.
"What do you want right now? Or don't you know that with any certainty?" she asked.
"I want to collapse my wave function into you," I said.
Now I want to go to India, more than ever, and read Dawesar's next novel, That Summer in Paris, too.