"Like a ghost of bitches past, I've jumped up menacingly from the bottom of your bed demanding margaritas and orgasms."

But you came in like the love of my life. Swept up the whole room like a storm moving through oceans.

His pain is immortal: it survived generations, bred in quiet rooms filled with hushed tones, sweaty women pinned on beds fucked to conception, mouths stuffed with secrets.

I've written some long and drunken thank you notes to men I knew for fifteen minutes: thanks for the dinner, the sex, and the punch in the heart. But now never call again — never think of me again.

"Ever so foolishly in love with you! Always so foolishly in love with you!"

Somebody told me that when you lie in the jaw of crocodile, you won't be alive long enough to hear the snap and thrash of gnashers and teeth.

It's peculiar in a thousand prismed ways: I'm a barker and a biter; a scrapper and a fighter. I smoke too many cigarettes and sometimes have the heaviest whisky breath in a bar.

They filled my head with Delhi Belly and bottled water and mosquitos the size of hummingbirds. Funnily enough, beyond the urban myths (and, most importantly, beyond myself) I found something else on the subcontinent.