from An Atlas of Impossible Longing by Anuradha Roy--
In the warm glow of fires that lit the clearing at the centre of straw-roofed mud huts, palm-leaf cups of toddy flew from hand to hand. Men in loincloths and women in saris had begun to dance barefoot, kicking up dust.
While not very captivating, these first two lines gave me the impression that I was in for a culturally enlightening read.
I'm sharing lines from the same read this week...
The murdered man lay on the road, a dark, shining puddle forming beside his stomach as the owls resumed their soft night-time exchanges.
Kananbala lay down beside Amulya on the far edge of their wide bed and, trying to breathe as quietly as her panting would allow, in her head she began to make up a story.