| thanking all those who helped me with this book: Shinie Antony, my editor and first reader since Five Point Someone. Her feedback is invaluable. Those who helped me at various stages of conceptualizing, research and editingâ€"Anubha Bang, Abhishek Kapoor, Anusha Bhagat, Masaba Gupta, Ayesha Raval, Abha Bakaya and Anusha Venkatachalam. My teamâ€"Bhakti, Michelle, Tanya and Virali. My immediate familyâ€"Anusha, Shyam, Ishaan. My mother, Rekha. My brother and his wife, Ketan and Pia. My in-laws, Suri, Kalpana, Anand and Poonam. Friends who make life worthwhile. My extended family on Twitter and Facebook. The entire team at Rupa Publications India. All those I met in Bihar while writing this book. And, finally, Bill Gatesâ€"and not just for Microsoft Word this time. I want to share something with you. With this book, I complete ten years as a writer.When I started writing, my motives were different. I wanted to make it. I wanted to prove a point. Today, I write for different reasons. I write for change. A change in the mindset of Indian society. It is a lofty goal, and I am not foolish enough to think' I can ever achieve it. However, it helps to have positive intentions and a direction in life, and I am glad to have found mine. I want to reach as many people as I canâ€"through books, films or other mediums of entertainment, I am human; I will falter and I will have ups and downs. If possible, try to maintain your support and keep me grounded through that process, One more thing; don’t give me your admiration, Give me your love. Admiration passes, love endures. Also, admiration comes with ‘I want yon to read them,’ he said. We were in my room at the Chanakya Hotel,Patna.This morning, he had tried to stop me on my way out.Then he had waited for me all day; I had returned late at night to find him sitting in the hotel lobby. ‘Just give me five minutes, sir,’ he had said, following me into the lift. And now here we were in my room as he pulled out three tattered notebooks from his backpack. The spines of the notebooks came apart as he plonked them on the table.The yellowing pages fanned out between us.The pages had handwritten text, mostly illegible as the ink had smudged. Many pages had holes, rats having snacked on them. An aspiring writer, I thought. ‘If this is a manuscript, please submit it to a publisher. However, do not send it in this state,’ I said. ‘I am not a writer.This is not a book.’ ‘It’s not?’ I said, lightly touching a crumbling page. I looked up at him. Even seated, he was tall. Over six feet in height, he had a sunburnt, outdoor ruggedness about him. Black hair, black eyes and |
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