Prologue.

The city had not been kind to her. Not entirely unkind either.

Just as it tried with all possible decency to sever the umbilical bonds she had with hand painted walls of a house near the posh golf courses, it spoke to her, in the initial months – with the same decency.

Then the language turned harsh. The cajoling was gone. The requests turned in to absurd orders at the oddest times. The touch that sometimes soothed became that loathsome hand of a violator – trying to touch her inappropriately as she tried to rush about life.
And while she struggled to learn how to walk in the labyrinths – the city dragged her unceremoniously to t-points of heavy traffic – leaving her there – telling the people- “Look! She has NO clue about life! Or in that matter bout anything in general…”

Stumbling around graceless, she appeared to others covering ground with a confident stride. But sooner or later this echoing emptiness would fill her insides and wiping away left over tears – fingers would reach out for a pen. Or tap on the keys of a steel machine – absent mindedly. Or hunch over a note book in the busy heart of a metro.

She was convinced now that writers were inordinately insane. To want to shake the world for what it was worth was an intense form of neurosis.