‎"India, I have swum in your warm waters and run laughing in your high mountain meadows. Oh, why must everything I say end up sounding like a 'filmi gana', a goddamn cheap Bollywood song? Very well then: I have walked your filthy streets, India, I have ached in my bones from the illnesses engendered by your germs. I have eaten your independent salt and drunk your nauseatingly sugary roadside tea... India, my terra infirma, my maelstrom, my cornucopia, my crowd. India, my too-muchness, my everything-at-once, my Hug-me, my fable... It may be that I am not worthy of you, for I have been imperfect, I confess... India, fount of my imagination, source of my savagery, breaker of my heart. Goodbye."

(Salman Rushdie)