I won’t go anywhere with the sort of people I have—barely very less—and only few take interest in me. When I published my first book, they all cheered; then the second, it decreased; then the third, and finally the fourth. By then I understood everything: it’s not happening, I am not having it, I don’t have it, I’ll never have it. And then I started sketching—watercolor. Now, no one I knew understood watercolors, and they couldn’t relate. But portraits were somehow liked; yet they couldn’t bring me any money. The ones I loved never gave their portraits to be sketched, and the ones I did sketch never loved or paid anything. And coming to love—women—they too were scared of it. The scoundrel I am, the one I loved had nothing intrinsically hers; I don’t know where she is bitching now. And then the friends from school: they hardly ever texted me back, and I too found no soul in them, and left it there itself. And then I finally found a friend who lately became my sister—she was always ...
