In February, seven weeks before our first coronavirus lockdown, to while away the endless hours spent in the hospital bed as I was being administered long chemotherapy doses, I had a strong urge to read John Steinbeck’s 1939 award-winning novel, The Grapes of Wrath. I asked my husband to find it for me. He brought me his copy, which he had bought more than five decades ago in 1963, when he was a student at Indian Institute of Technology, Bombay. He was obviously impressed by the prominent mention it had received in the previous year’s Nobel Literature Prize citation.
The
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