Maybe it was all a coincidence. But the moment this book was born, was also one where the poet decided to step out of his house and let himself wander the streets of an unknown city. What came out of that process, was a collection of poems which were written on the road, for the road. Poems which were picked up from the gullies of Varanasi, which were lost in the silence of Jama Masjid and found again in the chaotic streets of Hyderabad, which were forgotten entirely and rewritten again under the streetlights of Bombay.
Maybe it was all a coincidence. But this is a collection of poems, that could also be a travelogue. The last boarding call of a midnight flight. The way back to a person through a polaroid. The road trip your parents wouldn’t let you go on.
I guess you’ll never know, unless you pick it up.