Saturday, October 22, 2016

Call for Submissions: The 2016 DNA-OUT OF PRINT Short Fiction Special:


We are excited to announce 2016 OUT OF PRINT short fiction special feature in DNA.

The theme this year is DISSENT.
Out of Print invites works that are nuanced, complex and imaginative in their interpretation of the theme ‘Dissent’ that may be read to mean a political, personal, communal, or societal form of subversion or protest.

The stories will be judged by the Out of Print editorial team, Indira Chandrasekhar, Leela Levitt and Ram Sadasiv.

Three stories will be chosen for publication in the DNA print spread ‘Just Before Monday’.
The winning story will receive a prize of Rs 18000. The remaining two finalists will receive an award of Rs 6000 each.

The prizewinners and 10 shortlisted works will be published online in DNA’s e-paper and on the Out of Print blog.

Submission Guidelines:
Submitted works must be original, in English, previously unpublished, and close to 2000 words in length.

Only one submission per writer will be read. Work by writers who have been finalists in two consecutive DNA-OUT OF PRINT short story competitions will not be considered.

Submissions should be cut and pasted into the body of an email and sent to Please note, no attachments will be opened.

Subject line should read DNA-Out of Print 2016.

A short biographical note of 150-200 words should be cut and paste below the story.

The last date for submissions is Sunday, 6 November at midnight IST.

The longlist will be announced on Sunday, 20 November.

The shortlist that includes the 3 winners and the 10 works that will be published on the Out of Print blog and in the DNA e-paper will be announced on Sunday 27 November.

If you have not heard from us by Sunday 27 November, it means, unfortunately, that your piece has not been chosen.

We look forward to receiving your submissions.

The winning stories and the shortlisted works of 2015 themed around ‘Erosion’ may be read at

The winning stories of 2014 themed around ‘Choice’ may be read at The remaining ten shortlisted works from 2014 may be found at

Sunday, September 18, 2016

Out of Print Author Series: Tanuj Solanki

Out of Print Author Series: Tanuj Solanki
Interviewed by editor, Ram Sadasiv

OofP: Hi, we’re here with Tanuj Solanki, author of Neon Noon, published by HarperCollins India. I read the novel in galleys and I must admit that I got a little chill seeing that watermark on every page. Congratulations. How does it feel to be able to ‘assert the moral right to be identified as the author of this work’?
TS: Well, it’s complicated. I take your question as ‘what does it mean to have a first book out’, and to that I have a not-so-sunny answer. There is of course the initial excitement, and that stupid moment when you hold it in your hands and are on the verge of crying; but then, a month or so later, your joy begins to diminish and after a point you even start getting bored by the mere sight of it. Compared to the day the book comes out, I now believe that the day its joys expire (for the writer) is the truer landmark moment. You confront the fact that your desire to create is enormous, that you won’t be satisfied with this one alone, that a single book won’t solve you, that if you are writing for tiny redemptions then those redemptions have to be had again and again and again, that you are condemned to grapple with what it is to be a human being forever, that you will continue to deal with the world in sentences, that you will have to understand dawns and dusks and mountains and oceans and great plastic hoardings and money and Muzaffarnagar and geopolitics and climate change as sentences, that your back will hurt and your neck will hurt and your eyes will hurt but you will keep at it, that something good will get made only after it has swallowed a previously unaccounted part of what makes you you, et cetera. Each time I look at Neon Noon on my bookshelf now, it as a sign telling me that ‘there are no options.’ It’s bloody terrifying, and so, yes, it’s a thing of horror to have a first book out and then get past it.

OofP: It’s always good to see your friends succeed, and you have certainly been a good friend to the magazine over the years. To me, one of the most edifying things has being able to watch your voice grow, and to see how some of the more fragmentary material that previously appeared in Out of Print has been pulled together into a coherent whole. The first piece of yours that we published, Sentatoms, in March of 2013 [], appears largely intact in Neon Noon as ‘Flashback to Nepal Holiday’. Can you tell us a little bit about the genesis of that chapter and where it fit into the composition of the book?
TS: The project that became Neon Noon started with Sentatoms. I was in Nepal, with the woman I was romantically involved with. It was a strange time because we both knew that our relationship was going to end soon after the trip was over. But the inertia of our love was making it difficult for us to say anything conclusive to each other. (The French have written good novels about this excruciating phase, I’m told.) Anyway, I wanted to make a memorial out of this pathetic period of my life, and so I started writing about each day in a notebook, assuming fictional replicas of the two of us; although I was also often hoping that she (the real one) will open that notebook and see the beauty of the sentences and be seduced and fall in love with me all over again (which didn’t happen).  I was reading Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy on my Kindle in those days, and it’s a bloody efficient book to read if you are trekking in the Himalayas and desirous of writing about the mountains. I wouldn’t have used the words panniered and packsaddled and ecru and buttes in Sentatoms had I not been encountering them at the same time in the McCarthy book. Even the generous spitting in Sentatoms was a derivation from the McCarthy novel – people spit a lot in that one. I don’t know why I felt that I could use the grimness of that super-violent novel to inspire the bourgeouis grimness in my notes. But this template persisted even as I wrote on after Nepal, after Sentatoms.

Initially, there was more in the notes that later became Sentatoms. But I culled a lot before submitting it to you. Sadly, I’ve lost those sentences. Losing a sentence is like losing a reality, right? Then some sentences were edited out of the final draft that was Flashback to Nepal Holiday, but I still have them stored. I think a writer should maintain a repository of unused sentences. They didn’t fit aesthetcically, so what? They were something when they were.

OofP: In several places in Neon Noon you name drop Roberto Bolaño, and in the opening chapter, ‘I never think of those two nights’, you identify him as one of ‘the graveyard writers’, continuing:

‘I love their writing, T said with a flourish of his hands. The spontaneity. Sometimes I feel they create the illusion, the illusion that they are not concerned with the demands of the narrative, that they are just rambling – recording events and conversations. But you can’t miss the sense of doom in each sentence. The story always reaches a precipice from where everything is hurled. And down it all comes – all crash and burn.’

It is not represented in Neon Noon, but I certainly felt the shadow of Bolaño in some of your earlier Out of Print stories, particularly The Sad Unknowability of Dilip Singh, published in the DNA Fiction issue in July of 2014 []. Can you expand on the concept of ‘graveyard writers’, or more generally, what Roberto Bolaño means to you?
TS: There are many levels on which reading Bolaño has helped move towards becoming that thing called writer. At the level of the sentence: my education is that it is possible to craft an incredibly affecting one even without possessing astonishing powers of description or great wit in turning phrases. Simply speaking, at the level of the sentence Bolaño taught me that it was okay if I couldn’t become Nabokov. Heck, Bolaño taught me that it was okay if I couldn’t become McCarthy (Bolaño was also a Blood Meridian fan). This seems inconsequential, but Bolaño’s simplicity at the level of the sentence hides massive wisdom, in my opinion. As a writer, you develop an aesthetic around your limits, rather the highest common factor sentence you have. If it takes too much for you to come up with a single sentence as good as a Nabokov or a Salter, then you are not going to be able to write novels in the same league as those guys. But there are other sentences, other leagues.

Beyond the sentence, reading Bolaño is an experience in getting comfortable with fragmentation. Also the confidence of keeping plot points outside the novel. You see, it was through Bolaño that I learnt that while the plot may be a series of causal linkages that provide the figurative spine of a novel, it is not necessary for all of these linkages to actually appear inside the novel. Novels can have fragmented spines. Even short stories can have fragmented spines. Have you read the short story Last Evenings on Earth by Bolaño – the whole story is a big fat middle and he keeps the ending invisible.

This simple wisdom—or authorly brutality, depends on the way you look at it—is the very heart of all the mystery that Bolaño’s novels are understood to possess, their dark pulsating secret, so to speak. In Neon Noon, you never know the reason why the protagonist split with Anne-Marie, even though it is a part of the plot. I’m ok with it just as Bolaño might have been okay with it. Although of course I may look silly using a Bolaño trick in a novel that is far less political than any of his.

The term ‘graveyard writers’ refers to doom and gloom writers, I guess. You read their work and you know that their lives are difficult, that something very heavy is very wrong in their lives. And it all kind of implodes in the end of the story / novel. I’m sorry to sound mystical, but to give you examples: Jeet Thayil is a graveyard writer, Amitava Ghosh is not; David Foster Wallace is a graveyeard writer, Jonathan Safran Foer is not; and there is no graveyard writer in Britain. Europe has many, too many to count.

OofP: I got a big kick out of the last line of the first chapter:

‘P.P.S. The girls in Sriram’s apartment were not call girls. They were from his neighbouring flat.’

It made me laugh because that is exactly the kind of detail that I will share with friends if we are discussing one of my more ‘lightly’ fictionalised works. Your stories are generally told in the first person, and the narrators of your stories are frequently writers who share some of the details of your public biography and, in some cases, even your initials. If it’s not too personal, could you share some of the similarities and differences between you as a person and your narrators as characters, and how you manage that distance and overlap for inspiration and for creative effect?
TS: My narrator-protagonists are definitely more given to melancholy than I am, especially in situations they share with me. They also have less control over their lives than I have, which I guess is a derivative of their being pathetic. They are sadder than I was in the same situations. Their inner lives are more conflicted than mine. What they share with me is their writerly self, that struggle to write the best sentence, that self-consciousness about the quality of their own writing, of its powerlessness, and so on. And yet they find, as I’ve found, that writing does change things for them, that when reality is threatening all their subsistence fantasies it is the writing that glazes over reality to make it manageable, that to write something like ‘the flickers of neon defied the sky above and the sky was my heart and my heart was drowning in the lights of the world’ is a massive relief after you’ve actually had that same very exact experience looking at neon lights blinking at twilight.

A friend used the word auto-fiction for what I have done with Neon Noon, and I’m very happy with that, because it retains the auto- of autobiography and appends it with fiction. I think the word captures precisely what I did with the book. The protagonist shares some life experiences with me, especially the propelling ones, the ones that begin the action. I was similarly romantically involved and I similarly broke up. So that’s common. After that it’s mostly imagination, the fictive part taking over. Auto-fiction was not a limitation, it was a choice. Debut writers are often talked of as limited to writing autobiographically, in a euphemistically pejorative way. And here I was, wanting to create a protagonist who was close to me. So I decided to invite that euphemistic-pejorative quip. My debut novel is unabashedly auto-fiction – now for others to deal with that.

Auto-fiction, as it happens, is not lacking a tradition of its own. The French writer Edouard Leve wrote some beautiful books before his suicide. Karl Ove Knausgaard. W.G. Sebald perhaps had more fictive elements in his auto-fiction. Teju Cole, a descendant of Sebald, also wrote what could be called auto-fiction. Ben Lerner is more playful, more humorous than I can ever be; and being a poet, he is exceptional at the level of the sentence. But the two novels Lerner has written can be thought of as auto-fiction.

OofP: The third part of the novel, starting with the section conveniently titled Neon Noon, is to me a significantly different voice than the first half of the novel, and most of what we have previously published in Out of Print. I’m very happy that you chose to share an excerpt from that section with us, published in the September 2016 issue as Noon’s Entry [link]. Can you tell us a little bit about the excerpt and how that relates to the part of Neon Noon in which it appears? My co-editors are particularly interested in what might be construed as the heroism in the character’s positioning with respect to the women prostitutes in the excerpt.
TS: (I hope by ‘conveniently titled’ you don’t mean ‘badly titled’). Thank you for calling it ‘heroism’, though it was more like writerly duty. My protagonist is on sex trip. So, in his inner life, is he going to be politically correct? Shouldn’t he be using what are called vile expressions in his mind? He should, and that shouldn’t be surprising. A very juvenline review in a major newspaper  wondered how the Pattaya sections will be seen by feminists. I was like—come on! I’m a feminist, but I can’t give away verisimilitude for political correctedness. In fact, what is really surprising is the tenderness that this protagonist shows in certain moments, the humanity he lets show, even if accidentally. The more evolved reviewers have found the book to have a great sensitivity towards the women who drive this book, and I find that observation to be so gratifying. I did a decent job with the positioning with respect to the prostitutes, I think: my protagonist was lustful, regretful, loving, tender, angry, confused. What he was not was an evil person.

Noon is one of the many prostitutes he encounters in Pattaya. And since her name appears in the title, you can guess that she is the most important. The excerpt you are publishing is a pivotal one in the novel—it is, as the name suggests, of Noon’s entry. The protagonist-narrator sees something different in her—perhaps it is the very plainness of her appearance that contrasts with the pomp and glitter all around him. (In fact, immediately after this passage, he moans about not being able to describe Noon’s entry better). I also introduce the cast at Marie Bar Beer, where Noon works. Some of these characters will return at a later stage in the novel.

The excerpt gives an idea of the kind of writing the novel contains—not everything relates directly to the story, there is atmosphere, then there is the awkwardness of human interaction, and so on.

OofP: Neon Noon is filled with the idea of love, but the reality of love in the novel is less clear:

‘We kissed not like two people in love, but like two people in love with the possibility of love’

Having read Neon Noon, how are we supposed to feel about the (im)possibility of love?
TS: Romantic love is a subsistence fantasy, we need it. But it comes with the same caveat that all fantasies come with: the actualization in reality can be a thing of horror. If you have been ‘lucky’ enough to actually spend some domestic time with someone you really love, you also know how stupid the whole thing becomes if you keep using the vocabulary of—let’s call it—‘high love’. Love has a half life as soon as you domesticate it and fix your gaze on it. Because to have love manifested as daily life is to make it lose its own sense of possiblity.
The protagonist’s and Noon’s love—if it is love—is a thing of beauty, because it ends precisely at the height of its possibility. Any real manifestation after the point I left it off with will be a disappointment to either or both of them. I wanted them both to be remain truly happy forever, forever floating in beauteous possiblities.

Anyway, to come back to love’s difficulties: I claim that the tension between domestic life and love might be a derivation of what sort of work qualifies as economically viable in any age or time. For today’s bourgeousie across the word, corporate work cultures makes love’s quotidian actualization very difficult. It needs other notions and systems to survive. In other words, love needs unglamorous clutches, and there is no turning away from that fact. Thankfully, there are some.

Friendship is a much more flexible notion, more suited to reality than fantasies. Marriage is a solid system too, I think, a truly timeless social system. It can be unforgiving,  yes, but it at least attempts to make certain things (like infidelity) criminal, things that are necessary for love’s functioning. It at least attempts to provide a workable template for a love relationship.

Thursday, June 23, 2016

Out of Print 23!

Out of Print 23 features six stories whose settings span the rural to the urban, whose writing explores the experimental to the more traditional narrative.

It is the second time that we will publish a piece by Subimal Misra. Lord You Showed Me the Way, Didn’t Show the Road excerpted from Actually This Could Have Become Ramayan Chamar’s Tale was brought to our attention by its fine translator V Ramaswamy. It is a disturbing critique, a brutal commentary on the city and its corruptions, the division of Bengal, and the staggering amorality of politics and religion.

Another brutally direct piece, this time told from a deeply personal viewpoint that examines home and intimacy is Gitanjali Dang’s Burial at Sea. The protagonist must negotiate an alienated city full of dangers and is forced to move underground because it is almost an imperative for women to control the ‘velocity and sound of their streams’ when they urinate and ‘all loos everywhere are under surveillance’.

Nighat Gandhi’s Sharmaji’s Shoes  and Janet H Swinney’s Drishti have a pacing that allows their readers to enter their characters’ worlds with great engagement. Sharmaji, an army man, flawed, inherently misogynistic, disconnected and unaware of his failings finds his shoes have gone missing at an ashram retreat. He is drawn so subtly by author Nighat Gandhi that we are deeply sympathetic to his intense loneliness even as we feel revulsion at his arrogance and his lack of self-awareness. The principal character in Janet Swinney’s Drishti, a lifeguard at a sea resort lives in an odd transitional social space. His observations, his commentary on the world he is guarding from the unpredictabilities of the sea form a backdrop for the tension of the story in which he entertains himself playing elaborate games on his phone while on the job of protecting the resort guests.

Salil Chaturvedi’s story resonates most literally with the cover image by Ranjeeta Kumari, because the main character, Ramakant also makes a journey from his village in Bihar to the city every year. Ramakant’s acute observations have taught him that a person’s pillow carries a person’s dreams, and have also led him to conclude, from his diligent reading of the newspaper, that  what may have given rise to the unusually powerful floods that besiege his village that year may be deliberate and man-made.

An obsessive attention to the photograph of his first woman lover introduces the reader to the asthma-ridden protagonist in the O Henry Prize winner Shruti Swamy’s Black Dog. Set in the IIT, there is a compelling intensity with which it examines friendship, love, sexuality, and when something ‘flared up, nearly electric between’ Raju and him, the sharp severance that must accompany distancing.

The image is by Ranjeeta Kumari and is titled Afternoon (water colour on paper, 14”x 20”, 2016). Ranjeeta, who is from Patna now lives and works in New Delhi. About the work, she says, I found this piece of cloth, a gamcha, at the workers' site. I clicked a few pictures of it alongside some other objects and tools. The subtle lines drawn upon it give it the look of an abstract painting indicative of the myriad perspectives regarding the issues faced by the workers. The image became very significant to me as a metaphor of the silence which speaks a million words. The cloth can be viewed as a flag; the cloth is symbolic of the identity of the workers as it is tied by them on the head, the shoulders, the hips, and is used in multiple ways; the cloth is an icon of the existence of the workers and is the red colour of revolution.

Tuesday, May 10, 2016

Out of Print Author Series: Rheea Mukherjee

Rheea Mukherjee, two of whose stories have appeared in Out of Print, has a collection, Transit for Beginners, just published by Kitaab. We are thrilled for her, and really pleased to publish a conversation that emerged after editor, Indira Chandrasekhar read her collection. Both A Larger Design and Rectification Still that appear in the collection were first published in Out of Print.

O of P: Your work is rife with stories of families coming part at the seams – something that only embeds them more deeply in the inexplicable bonds that make meaning out of that ambiguous unit called family. I think particularly of Wedding Guests, and, in an odd way, of Unspeakable. Would you care to comment on that?

RM: You know, I honestly think even the most functional families are coming apart at the seams. I am not saying this in a pessimistic manner. And I don't think it's always a bad thing. There are several individual ‘other narratives' going on even in the closest of families. Some of them are straightforward: double lives and secrets. But most of them are psychological: the private battles of interpreting life and reality. And those experiences aren't discussed (nor can they be easily translated) at the dinner table. 

I had someone in mind when I created Mrs Bose [in Wedding Guests]. I wrote her character with a lot of sensitivity, which is ironic because in real life I would be blunt or uninterested having a conversation with a person like her. In comparison I was so gentle and understanding with her confusion, her cultural identity and her eroding relationship with her son. In my own family there have been times I have been so dismissive of that generation’s emotional complexity and battles. Mrs Bose allowed me to fix that. It allowed me to sit down and think through a generational gap. The story, Unspeakable, on the other hand is a doomed love story, but I think the narrative was built on the complexity of family. It let me write about the utter unfamiliarity that exists between the closest of people. The truth is, you will never know your mother’s deepest angst or private passion. You will never have a handle on how your sibling really feels about life or what emotional scars they hide. We use the phrase 'family secret' a lot, but I think it's less to do with secrets and more to do with humans attempting to simplify things that are intensely complex. 
O of P: Many of your characters have a sense of honour. I find that somehow touching, and hopeful. Sai, in Hungry is an obvious candidate, but also, Rudra, in an abstruse way, in Transit for Beginners. In Cigarettes for Maya, Maya’s awareness of what is the honourable way to act and the conflict caused by social hierarchies is acute. Are these deliberate characterizations, did you want to create people with honour, or did the stories make these characters emerge this way?

RM: I always look for the good in people I least expect it from. Some of my stories have examined people who exhibit stereotypically ‘bad behaviour’. That said, I also hint at their capability for good. Subconsciously though, I want to work with a far more sinister idea – that it’s the people who are passive, mundane, the cogs-in-the-wheel, if you will, who are capable of the most dangerous behaviour, and that’s apathy. Apathy lets so much evil go on. In comparison I find the people who struggle with moral codes and reject standard protocol far more hopeful. Because they have drive and purpose. There is something deeply disturbing about a country of people following, doing, working, and consuming without any trace of inner motivation.  

In Cigarettes for Maya, the cigarette wala Maya befriends does comment on inter-class relationships. However Maya and her urban flimsiness are ripe in the narrative, while the lower-middle class cigarette wala seems to be respectable and honest. In retrospect, I think I played it very safe with that story. It was a black and white narrative. It is also the first story I ever wrote, and although it’s gone through rounds of edits, you can see how that story stylistically is very different from the rest.  You mentioned hope, and I am glad you find that in my work. I think a lot of this book is about finding hope in one particular moment as opposed to finding final closure. I think that represents life, we’re living and resolving things every second.

O of P: Even in the searing and often tragic conflicts in your stories, the sense of setting is layered with observation, and occasional nostalgia. As if the difficulties are only more enhanced by the affection for place that you, as a writer are conveying to the reader. How do you work on describing places – do you, for example, make notes when you are somewhere in case it will be useful for a future story? Do you retain a visual memory in your head? Do you take photographs?

RM: It’s funny that you mention that because I am a terrible documenter. I never take notes, and never use pictures as a reference for my work.  I think my life has contributed to how a sense of place pops out in some of my stories.  I take a lot of emotional cues from different environments. My life was spent between two countries quite literally. I was born in the US lived there till I was 10, then moved to India and finished my schooling here. At 18, I moved back to the US for college. I had my degree in social work so I worked as counsellor for a bit and then did my MFA in creative writing before coming back to India. Bangalore has always been home, but the amount of transition I have experienced has organically allowed me to write about place without any effort.

O of P: May we spend a moment on your writing method? As a writer, I like talking about this because writers can be so diverse in their approach to their work. Are you a systematic writer – do you write everyday? Or do words spew out of you in fits and starts? How do you begin to overlay the necessary layers of restraint?

RM: I am anything but a systematic writer. I am also a very lazy writer. I solely rely on creative bursts and caffeine. It’s very random; I’ll have an idea, a certain piece of news, or some mundane conversation with a friend, something will trigger a story, and it comes to life in my head. One thing that has been happening a lot less is creating an end in my head before I type it out. Unspeakable had an ending in my head, but that was an easy end. Bitter-sweet love and a family secret that can never resolve itself does not allow for a comprehensive ‘ending’.

When I was writing Transit for Beginners I felt a stronger sense of closure. I also think it is the only story in the book that is plot directed. The reason for this is because it was inspired by something that happened to me in Changi airport. The actual story is pure fiction, but let’s just says that there was a similar experience. 

I need a purpose to write – something happening in the world that is sitting uncomfortably with me, needs to resolve itself through writing. When I wrote Doldrums it was a reflection of how my life had partly become, trapped within an urban paradigm with expectations and duties that were not motivating my imagination. Sexual abuse and depression are other themes that show up in my work a lot. I think they will always show up in my work directly or indirectly. 

Creating regularity as a writer is tremendously difficult. In the last year running Write Leela Write with Kalabati Majumdar has allowed me to grow as a person and as an entrepreneur, but it has also cut into my fiction writing time. I have been writing a lot more non-fiction; these pieces are easier for me, because they are for magazines with deadlines and one thing I do really well is sticking to deadlines. With fiction it’s my own pace, and I can be tragically lazy about it. I have to finish my novel by the end of this year, and thinking about it makes my hands sweat. Because at the end of the day writing is hard work, it’s going beyond that spark of an idea and putting meat on it. It’s layering your characters and creating narrative arcs. I think writing a novel is much harder, because you can’t get your little idea out there and be done with it. In that way the short story has been indulgent, it’s the best of both worlds, it lets me create a world, get my point across and be done super quickly. One reason I have been struggling with finishing my novel is because of the amount of consistency I have to create while continuously developing the heart of the idea. I suspect it will take a moment of potent creative energy to get me on track. Let’s just say that I am waiting for it.

O of P: As an editor, I am always curious about how much writers engage with an editor before publication. Did you work with someone, or did your publishing house impose any editorial rules on your work?

RM: Well, one thing about these stories is that they read very differently from what they initially were. My book spans stories I have written over the past ten years and during that time I have sent many of them to literary magazines. That’s when the rejections started to roll in. It was a force that propelled me to revise my stories and really understand the beauty of editing. If you were to see some of my stories as first drafts you would have shaken your head with utter disappointment. For some stories I changed major plot points, for example in A Good Hostess, Asha resorts to medicating her husband for attention.  For years that story did not have the medication bit in it. That crucial bit came to me only 2 years ago and the story is 8 years old. It changed the whole feel of the story.

So coming back to your question, by the time my stories got published they were in much better shape. I had dozens of literary magazine editors write me personal rejection notes about some of my work; it allowed me to flesh out my narratives a lot more. Kitaab was very permissive about how my stories read; they did not have any issues with the macro parts. I had a super copy editor from Kitaab, Shruti Rao who went through everything line by line and caught some ironic mistakes and inconsistencies. I struggle with mild dyslexia so I can’t proof anything, even if my life depended on it. When it came to final proofing at the typesetting phase, my partner Indra diligently did it for me.