As an Asian writer Radhika Swarup, has time and again proven herself to be worthy of note and an iconoclastic novelist who has freed from conventional stereotyping of South Asian women. She depicts within these lines the realisation of a character that she has aged and old memories may linger but they no longer define who she is unless she wishes for them too. Since when memories are being made, they are in the process of happenstance, they are more often than not taken for granted. They are rarely fully appreciated for the moment they are within and the people they enmesh within them. Sooner rather than later a person comes to realise they have to become the teachers rather than the taught. They now will have to occupy the place of the providers rather than the provided. It is only time that waits for no one to come to terms with themselves and that is exactly what makes it so valuable.

“She thought of the people she had lost, of the affection, the smiles, the belonging she could never again take for granted. It was the end of a life, and as she stood there, shivering in the brief night-time chill, it dawned on her that it was the end of her childhood.”
–Radhika Swarup