Wednesday, 19 June 2013


For a very long time, I had no courage to really write. So I wrote in bits and pieces, scraps, fragments. I wrote little things on social networking sites. First this humble blog, and then stupid facebook, where I could put up pictures of myself in dresses and drag, showcasing my humbly flamboyant self to the world. I am tired of all that now.

I am tired because the time has come to really write. The time has come to tell the story of Bengal, of India, of South Asia, of the world as I see it. I can see the canvas, I can see these tremulous characters write their own destinies using my humbly arrogant self as a means to language, as an instrument to be represented. And I am afraid again. This time, really afraid.

You see for me, literature is the life I have carefully constructed and can carelessly destroy. It is the path to the thousand worlds I'll never see. I don't care whether I end up seeing these worlds or not. I do not know the day when language came to me and said, "Ahona, will you use me, you humble beast, will you dream me in technicolor and splash the sepia of history on blank pages, will you type it out with your best intentions, and modesty, and will you then do justice to lives which will otherwise fade into oblivion, because they have no space in the footnotes of the books you read."

And I said, yes, one day, I shall.

But I forgot. I waited. I waited too long, and magnolia threatens to become cypress. The smell of acrid and sweet death once more has come back to me, in the form of a quarter century.

Therefore, I have started. May I infuse the sepia vignettes of history with some passion, and some emotion, and some devotion. And may you, reader, love me more than you have ever before.