In his mind, he was Indian. He wrote in Sanskrit, he dreamed in the local language, he spoke it. He ate food with his fingers. Nothing about India surprised him any longer. Wordlessly, he knew each of its features. When the time came, he was sick with longing for China, and sick at leaving India. His mind was like a sheet of paper, torn in two with a terrible rustle. It was the price he paid for his journey, a sort of mental purgatory in which he belonged neither here nor there(p.395).