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Writings


The Stranger
Mumbai, 2016. I am going to pee myself. Mumbai isn’t an easy place to find a public restroom, especially around Borivali, in its cluster of greying residential buildings and lack of restaurants to meander into. My bladder needs catharsis. I am hobbling around, so full I may internally bleed if I hold it in any longer. And then I see him. A man fumbling with the front door of a six-story apartment, and without thinking, I run over to him. “May I use your bathroom?” He smiles w


Uncertainty
We take a train from the green Austrian Alps into the gray concrete of Berlin. The scenery moves like flipping pages from a picture book....


The Poor Writer
I was staying in a friend’s basement in Brooklyn near a Hasidic neighborhood. There had been torrential flooding the week before and the...


Pay For It
Room 305 in the Bowery Hotel smelled like sex, meaning the juices of desire and the dank odor of sweat. Jack was dripping in heat and...


Remember District Six?
Apartheid had ended, but the stench of it refused to leave Cape Town. Everything changed, but somehow nothing had changed. Things were as...
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