What you read isn’t my story; don’t try reading in between the lines. The words that tell my tales are struck off and horridly concealed. Every happy spell is contaminated by the knowledge of how fleeting such moments are and how life is spent trying to disentangle this contingency.
There’s no life on paper, neither does ink hide memories; there’s no use digging deeper, what I write is what you read, the history.
In collaboration with Anushka.