Her name was Poonam… we called her Mrs. P. She was our landlady; my husband of one month and I. In retrospect, I cannot decide
I had been married three years on that sultry June afternoon. Delhi and I had come to the conclusion that we couldn’t get along. We
Wounds that drip blood are colorful. Their bloodless counterparts, though more painful, are boring. They have no drama value. I am talking of the wounds
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