In the late 1990s, I read a short story by Nirmal Verma called “Terminal.” It had been written, like all of Verma’s fiction, in Hindi, and translated into English by the critic Alok Bhalla. I knew something of Verma’s work, because his reputation was a national one. I had taken him to be a kind of European writer in Hindi, though I hadn’t formed this thought clearly in my head, and, if I had, wouldn’t have known with certainty what “European writer” meant.