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The vocabulary I brought to them had accreted organically, from books I read — “wizening” from D. H. Lawrence; “ayah” from Frances Hodgson Burnett; “crewelwork” from Jane Austen.

His poems sometimes feel like adjuncts of his stories, evincing a fiction writer’s delight in details that exist outside the crewelwork of storytelling; crumbs, one-offs, outtakes.

He recognizes versions of things he knows from home: a Kashmiri crewelwork carpet on the floor, Rajasthani silk pillows on the sofa, a cast-iron Natraj on one of the bookcases.

But for sheer pleasure, there was a long ivory shearling coat with black Moroccan crewelwork.

With the hands that had never handled anything rougher than crewelwork she chose her grip along the tough ladder of looped lianas.