For keeping me awake when I wanted to sleep, night after night after night. For forcing me wear jeans rather than short skirts, shirts rather than halter-necks. For invoking my anger, my frustration, my tears. For ruining every vacation I’ve taken with your inescapable presence. For making me thirst for your blood, as you do for mine.
Fuck off and die, Mosquito, fuck off and bloody die.
In second year English lit, we studied an anthology of Indian women authors called Inner Courtyard. Named thus, because the inner courtyard of an old-fashioned Indian home – aangan, ungunn, zanaana wh
I mentioned to Rook the other day how I find it interesting that we live in a country where myth, history and belief are so tightly wound together, it’s almost impossible to tell one from the other. R
