“She wanted no one and nothing else”
The narrator, of Nanda Kaul, Part 1, Chapter 1 (Penguin p. 3)
The flat, absolute statement sets out Nanda Kaul's whole desire in the opening pages. The paired negatives “no one” and “nothing” sweep away people and possessions alike, but the rest of the novel tests whether such total refusal is strength or damage.
“rolled a fat ball of irritation into the cool cave of her day”
Part 1, Chapter 1 (Penguin p. 3): the postman approaching
Desai turns a feeling into a physical object. Nanda Kaul's day is a “cool cave”, sealed and dark, and irritation is a heavy ball rolled into it. The metaphor shows how small an intrusion it takes to disturb her, and hints that her calm is fragile.
“as of men going up in flames with their arms outstretched”
Part 1, Chapter 3 (Penguin p. 12): the three pines by the gate
The first fire image, seen through the postman's eyes. The pines are already charred and look like burning men with their arms thrown out, an image of agony placed at the entrance to Carignano. It foreshadows the final fire and hints that the house is not the haven it seems.
“I want no more. I want nothing. Can I not be left with nothing?”
Nanda Kaul's thoughts, Part 1, Chapter 5 (Penguin p. 17), after reading Asha's letter
Three short sentences, the repeated “I want”, then a question that sounds like a plea. The paradox of asking to be “left with nothing” suggests exhaustion rather than pride: a woman who has given everything and wants to give no more. It invites sympathy even at her coldest.
“she would be a charred tree trunk in the forest”
Part 1, Chapter 7 (Penguin p. 23): Nanda Kaul's afternoon rest
Lying still, Nanda Kaul imagines turning into dead things so that nothing can reach her. The chosen image is a burnt tree, which links her withdrawal to the novel's fire imagery and suggests that her peace is a kind of death, not life.
“The care of others was a habit Nanda Kaul had mislaid.”
Part 1, Chapter 9 (Penguin p. 30)
The understated verb “mislaid” makes a lifetime of mothering sound like something dropped absent-mindedly. The narrator goes on to say it had felt like a religious calling until she found it fake. The irony prepares us for Raka's arrival: the habit will return whether she wants it or not.
“a recluse by nature, by instinct”
The narrator, of Raka, Part 2, Chapter 4 (Penguin p. 48)
This completes the novel's key comparison: Nanda Kaul is a recluse out of vengeance for a life of duty, Raka one by nature. The balanced sentence makes the two mirror images, and makes Nanda Kaul's solitude look chosen and fragile beside the child's.
“You are exactly like me, Raka.”
Nanda Kaul to Raka, Part 2, Chapter 9 (Penguin p. 64)
A rare open claim of love and kinship, and it fails at once: Raka retreats from it in distaste. The line shows Nanda Kaul's growing need, and the irony that the child most like her is the one who least wants her.
“This was no vision of kings and queens in a rosy court.”
Part 2, Chapter 11 (Penguin p. 68): Raka at the club window
Raka has expected the glamour Ram Lal described, and sees instead a frenzied fancy-dress party. The negative sentence marks the collapse of a fantasy, a small version of what happens to Nanda Kaul at the end, and leads into Raka's memories of violence at home.
“Who wanted truth? Who could stand it? Nobody. Not even herself.”
Nanda Kaul's thoughts, Part 2, Chapter 17 (Penguin p. 89)
After failing to comfort Raka about her mother, Nanda Kaul justifies evasion with a burst of rhetorical questions and blunt fragments. “Not even herself” is an admission the reader will remember on the final page, when the truth she cannot stand arrives.
“It was the ravaged, destroyed and barren spaces in Kasauli that drew her”
The narrator, of Raka, Part 2, Chapter 18 (Penguin p. 91)
The list of three harsh adjectives piles up damage, and the cleft sentence puts the ruined places first, before Raka herself. It explains her attraction to the ravine and the burnt house, and prepares the reader for her fire.
“Commotion preceded her like a band of langurs.”
Part 3, Chapter 1 (Penguin p. 107): Ila Das arrives
The comic simile compares the jeering schoolboys who swarm around Ila Das to a troop of monkeys. It sets the tone of the tea party, farce with an edge, and shows how the world treats her as a figure of fun long before it treats her with violence.
“A forest fire is more than even a Government welfare officer can tackle”
Ila Das, Part 3, Chapter 9 (Penguin p. 130)
Ila laughs as she says it, but the line is heavy with dramatic irony. Unnoticed, Raka is at that moment about to take the matches, and Ila is about to walk into a danger no welfare officer can tackle. Desai brings the fire and the attack together in a joke.
“There had never been anyone more doomed, more menaced than she”
Nanda Kaul's thoughts, watching Ila Das leave, Part 3, Chapter 10 (Penguin p. 133)
The absolute “never” and the paired comparatives make this sound like prophecy. Nanda Kaul sees Ila Das's danger clearly, and yet does not act; a page later she is relieved that the danger of the visit has passed. The reader is left with the gap between seeing and helping.
“It was all a lie, all. She had lied to Raka, lied about everything.”
Nanda Kaul's thoughts after the phone call, Part 3, Chapter 13 (Penguin p. 145)
The repeated “all” and “lied” give the confession the rhythm of collapse. Desai keeps the third person, but the voice is Nanda Kaul's own, speaking to herself. Every story of Parts 1 and 2 is undone in two sentences.
“Look, Nani, I have set the forest on fire.”
Raka, at the window, Part 3, Chapter 13 (Penguin p. 145)
Raka's announcement is plain and almost proud, but she whispers it, shivering, and calls for her Nani. The simplicity after pages of dense prose makes it shocking. It is not the last sentence of the novel: that belongs to the flames and smoke in the ravine.