This is an extract of the text where the narrator talks about the world being reflected on a dog's testicles…
Then, with bladder empty and conscience clear, he would look up at Estha with opaque green eyes that stood in his grizzled skull like scummy pools and weave his way back to his damp cushion, leaving wet footprints on the floor. As Khubchand lay dying on his cushion, Estha could see the bedroom window reflected in his smooth, purple balls. And the sky beyond. And once a bird that flew across. To Estha–steeped in the smell of old roses, blooded on memories of a broken man–the fact that something so fragile, so unbearably tender had survived, had been allowed to exist, was a miracle.
by quiescent_haymaker