A horse was in flames. It roamed beneath the ocean breathing fire . . .’

When he wakes up, Elango knows his life has changed. His dream will consume him until he gives it shape. The potter must create a terracotta horse whose beauty will be reason enough for its existence. Yet he cannot pin down from where it has galloped into his mind ? the Mahabharata, or Trojan legend, or his anonymous potter-ancestors. Nor can he say where it belongs ? in a temple compound, within a hotel lobby, or with Zohra, whom he despairs of ever marrying.