"Does God sleep?" She asked, sat on the edge of a single bed. "No, he never rests." He answered, laid next to her. A steel casement window overlooks a farm as big as Texas outside. On the inside however, things are rather small. Rooms, heads, hearts. There is not much space to reason, nor on the inside, neither out on the vast, sun-lit farm. In this place, nobody asks why. Things are the way they are, unruffled and never questioned. In this part of the world, there exists a peculiar rumour. The almighty resides in goats of all kinds.
In another part of the world, a man sits fiddling with a Rubik's cube. It smells of a woman's pallu. A woman he left behind to lead a life true to his psyche. As a 36 year old male with a predilection for suicide, he knows himself no more than she did when he first left home. He wonders if he amounted to nothing because he always thought he couldn't or because he was always told he wouldn't. It must be the former, however on certain occasions this woman sitting across from him feebly patting his hand would beg to differ. It feels strange though. She isn't wearing that purple saree anymore.
Somewhere further away, in a distant place, Maryam finds herself in a village surrounded by a colony of ants. There are various species of them. Some undeniably big, others exceedingly small, living in harmony with the townsfolk until their ego grows bigger and population grows larger. But she's not there at all. She slips in and out of strange places, since she lost her baby boy a week ago. Three houses sit next to hers, he could be in one of them. He must be, so she sets off with her husband to inspect the friendly neighbours she doesn't quite trust as it becomes exceedingly difficult to trust herself, with each house she inspects.
Other than the ones mentioned, there are three more stories in the book that will provoke you to think. None with a face of its own. Give it yours.