Clad in a maroon polo-neck, he walks with his head tilted towards the ground, perhaps, in an attempt to hide his grey-bearded partially bald face from the scorching Mumbai skies. His shoulders are weary as he turns towards an old two-storeyed building, with yellow coated brick walls that almost oddly…

For the volcanic age of twenty-three, my friends and I sure do speak a lot about sorrow. Sipping on his third can of red-bull, S, referencing to our happy-go-lucky college days, spoke with a sense of retirement, “It seems as though we cannot be any happier than we have been…

What would you call it, if not hope, that made a fourteen-year-old all of four feet and six inches believe that if not then, she would someday be extraordinary? But as I grew older, so did the parameters of being extraordinary. Age 16: I did not have a sweet-sixteen birthday…