It was hard reading this book without a lump in my throat. Only a person who has thirsted for a permanent roof over his/ her head will be able to relate to the heart wrenching emotions Mr. Pandita has evoked so wonderfully in his passages. As I went from one page to another, I felt that Mr. Pandita's forefathers were blessing every word of his with a force that is incomprehensible, a sort of painful love and regret that clutches you by the neck and stares into your soul demanding you to listen. That one recollection of the author where his mother clutches a knife and says she will first kill her daughter and then herself should the rowdy crowd barge in to their home hit me very hard emotionally. So much so that for the first time in my life I felt tears swelling in my eyes due to a piece of writing. All of it culminating in a passionate crescendo when the author talks about how his mother cried in the kitchen of the house that he had bought in Delhi. I still have a lump in my throat as I write this review.I just want to hug the author and tell him that I am now his brother. I don't know and I don't care if it matters anymore. Passionately beautiful, forceful and thought provoking. Please buy this book first hand; no borrowing or buying from second hand stalls.