Two of my cousins are profusely talking about their holiday to Japan. I tell them my favorite author lives in Kyoto. A third cousin saunters in, looking resplendent, in a backless midi. She regales us with tales of her Bangkok trip with a woman who is now her best friend. “We went to strip clubs all day and the next morning I find her praying habitually to eight idols of God, arranged, rather meticulously.” Everyone breaks into peals of laughter. “The sight of that heavily lipsticked mouth chanting fervently and varnished hands pressed together in perfect synchronicity still amuses me.”
When she is not mollycoddling her baby girl, Swati Moheet Agrawal spends time writing in her favourite coffee shop. She delights in giving depth to the banal and literature makes her world more navigable.