On my trip to India and Nepal years ago, I opted for a book that would likely last me the six weeks. Thus I opted for an ample book and one I was sure to enjoy. I brought Anna Karenina with me.

The characters quickly came to life and the notions I had of a gray, drab Soviet Era were replaced with Tolstoy’s descriptions of delicacies, festive balls, and French lace. I was transported through his words.

I was transported in tuk-tuks and trains, admiring the graceful swaying of women in Saris as they carried heavy packages upon their heads. I was discovering remote lush countrysides and cacophanous cities. I was encountering an onslaught of sounds, odors, tastes, sights, and humanity in Southern Asia.

The disparity of my experiences and that of Anna’s became too great. I put the book away and bought another on the life of a Maharajah.