Sometimes, of course, the historic spirit turns strangely to the present. My most recent novel, The Scent of God is a love story between two teenage boys in an all-boys' boarding school run by a Hindu monastic order in late-twentieth century India where same-sex relationships constitute a crime. Again, it comes from the memory of a place I have known, where living with religion, learning and growing with it, becomes a strangely erotic experience. It happens especially as you hit puberty and are stirred by bodily desires, not caring whether the touch you crave belongs to a boy or a girl. But the novel came to be published in a world where Hinduism had become militarized, and saffron-clad monks could become ministers. But it was also a world that had just witnessed, just a few months ago, the decriminalization of homosexuality in the Indian Penal Code. While the novel got caught up in the celebration, the figure of the saffron Yogi, who mentored young boys, suddenly looked shadowy and enigmatic, charismatic and ominous at the same time.