in a clean office far from here, Purnendu writes my story, and his editor makes it better. “Your editor made the story better?” I laughed when Purnendu told me. “My story would be better if…” I count on my hands. “If we had not been evicted, do you see? If my father had not broken his back, if my mother had not been attacked for trying to run a small business. If I could have afforded to finish school.” “Not better like that,” said Purnendu. “Then like what?” He had no answer.
