A TEMPORARY ARRANGEMENT by Vikram Kapur
AS I’M GETTING STARTED on my makeup, my phone beeps. My manager Dinesh is texting. There is a girl asking for u.
For him they remain girls rather than customers.
Tell her to try another artist I can only get there by 11.30.
I press send and go to work on the dark circles under my eyes. Dinesh’s message arrives while I’m applying the concealer. She says she’ll wait for u.
I’ve learned to be wary of those who wait. They come with expectations fired sky high by someone who’s ecstatic about what I’ve done for her face. Some expect me to transform them into Bollywood beauties in one makeup session. I hope she’s not one of them.
Ok, I tap on my phone, I’ll c her when I get there. After pressing send, I get started on the lines poking out of my eyebrows.
It’s not simply the lines that need to be hidden when you’re a 41-year-old man with oily skin. I have to tease the concealer deep into my skin to block out the uneven skin tone and dark circles hemming in my eyes. Then I dab on some compact foundation powder with a sponge. I wish I could pat on some contour powder below my jawline and cheekbones to make my fleshy face appear slimmer. I’d also love some lip tint. But going out on the street wearing all that makeup means getting stared at like I’m a freak. I could attract a rant or worse. So I quit. The rest will have to wait for the tiny room at the back of the store bulging with squabbling makeup artists. With a customer waiting, I have no idea when I can get in there.
Once I’m done with my face, it's time to leave. I pick up my shoulder bag and go out the front door. Home is a one-bedroom flat on the top floor of a four-story building in Preet Vihar. I bought it soon after Deepak and I started dating four years ago. Now I live here alone. Deepak is in New York getting his PhD in film studies from NYU. He went two years ago. “What about us?” I asked him when he told me he was leaving. He stared at me as if I’d accused him of murder. “Us?” he said in a pained voice. “Nothing will change between us. You’ll visit me in New York. I’ll come back in my holidays. We’ll talk every day.” He sounded so hurt that I felt guilty for asking.
We did talk practically every day on Skype for three months after he left. Then he became too busy to talk. Soon after that he quit writing and texting. I learned he had moved on when I found pictures of him with his new boyfriend on his Facebook page.
More than a year has passed since I saw those pictures. Remembering them now is like scratching an old wound. I know it will ache, but I scratch it anyway. I tell myself to stop scratching each time. Deep down, I know I won’t.
Prashant’s substantial back, clad in a check shirt, enters the ancient lift as I enter the lobby. I can make it before the lift’s scarred doors close. I choose to remain where I am.
Prashant lives in the flat next to mine with his wife and two kids. He was already living there when Deepak and I moved in. He thought we were flatmates at first and would laugh and talk to us when we ran into each other in the lift or the lobby. He clammed up once he learned we were a couple. His snub remains palpable all these years later. It is like a stink I want no part of. I avoid him as much as I can.
The metro station is a two-minute walk from my building. The platform is practically empty when I get there. The metro train whooshes in a few minutes later. The rush hour is over and my coach is only half full. I seat myself and my shoulder bag next to a man immersed in a Hindi newspaper whose headline wonders when India will be locked down now that Covid-19 has been declared a pandemic.
Normally, I pull a novel out of my shoulder bag the moment I get a seat in the metro. Today my attention is consumed by two young men in their twenties sitting across from me on the other side of the coach. They’re speaking in hushed tones. I can’t make out a word of what they’re saying. Yet I’m struck by the casual ease with which they converse. There is a warmth in the way they smile at each other, an unspoken tenderness in how their hands seem to touch accidentally. Deepak and I used to be like that. The thought makes me sad. Yet I continue to watch the two men. I live for beauty and what can be more beautiful than two people in love? Even after I get started on my novel, I find myself looking at them. They are still in the coach when the train pulls into the Saket metro station an hour later. I wish them luck with all my heart before getting off.
I take an autorickshaw from the station to the Select City Walk mall where the store is located. The driver throws up his hands when I haggle over the fare. “What to do, sahib? I won’t make a single paisa when we go into lockdown.” He is not the only one beset with lockdown fear. In the mall I find people panic buying everywhere. My store is full even though it’s not even noon yet. Dinesh’s narrow figure hovers in front of a shelf packed with various brands of lipstick. Normally, he is so conscious of his crooked teeth that he makes it a point to smile with his mouth closed. Today his mouth is wide-open in the biggest smile I’ve seen on his face. That’s how much he’s enjoying the bumper sales. I make my way over to ask him about the waiting customer. He points to the far corner, where a blue suitcase with a trolley stands alone.
“She was there,” he says in a bemused voice.
There is a tap on my shoulder. I turn around to see a slim, almond-coloured girl dressed in a green salwar kameez. She is wearing her yellow dupatta wrapped round her neck. She has shoulder-length black hair and is at least two inches taller than me. I can see the shadow of her shave; it is visible even though her face is packed with blush and highlighter. The pale pink lipstick she has on is too light for her skin tone and I’m not sure whether she needs such a thick coat of mascara on her XXL eyelashes. About half of it applied with a gentler stroke of the brush might work better. There is something familiar about her eyes. I wonder where I’ve seen them.
“Yash Uncle,” she says in a thick voice.
I catch my breath as I remember those eyes looking at me from the face of a seven-year-old boy. “Bheem?”
She smiles, relieved that I’ve placed her. “I’m Bhavana now,” she tells me.
She was my nephew Bheem, a slightly built boy of seven, when I last saw her. That was sixteen years ago, when I left my hometown of Kanpur. My father had contacted a matchmaker with the intention of marrying me off. I came out when he told me that the matchmaker had found a suitable girl. There was no question of staying with the family after that. Or, for that matter, living in Kanpur. Delhi may not have been less homophobic, but it was more than five times the size of Kanpur. I could be invisible there. Moreover, Delhi had a thriving makeup industry in which I could work. The only family member who didn’t cut me off after I came to Delhi was my mother. She called and wrote whenever she could. She died in a car accident six years ago. I only got to know about it two weeks later. My family never told me. They didn’t want me at the funeral.
For sixteen years I remembered Bheem as a befuddled child unable to make sense of the ruckus surrounding me coming out of the closet. Now he’s a strapping girl smiling down at me.
“Can we go talk somewhere?” Bhavana asks.
Sales are going too well for Dinesh to care. He nods absent-mindedly when I tell him I need to leave the store for a while. “Let’s go to the food court,” I say to Bhavana. She gets her suitcase and we are on our way.
The whole world stares at Bhavana as we ride the escalator two levels up to the food court. She doesn’t seem to care as she gazes straight ahead. I’m the one who is fidgety. I wish I’d taken her to the room at the back of the store. It may be cramped and noisy, but at least we wouldn’t have all these people staring.
I’m relieved to find the food court empty except for an old couple cooling their heels at a table near the escalator. They share a look of disgust after seeing Bhavana. I make for the far corner. Bhavana’s voice stops me. “Let’s sit here,” she says. She settles at the table next to the old couple. The old man instantly rises to his feet. His wife follows. The two of them shuffle to the other side of the food court. Bhavana shrugs her shoulders as she watches them go. I sit down in front of her with a shake of the head.
“What made you become Bhavana?” I ask her.
She raises a plucked eyebrow. “I thought you of all people would understand.”
“Why? Because I like men? That doesn’t make me want to be a woman.”
“No,” she shakes her head. “It’s because you chose to live as who you are instead of hiding in a closet. I’ve always wanted to be a woman. Don’t you remember how I’d sneak into Mummy’s room to try on her lipstick? It would drive Papa mad. Remember how he’d slap me about?”
I had forgotten.
“I made the change when I came to Delhi for college five years ago. I’d be Bheem when I went back home for the holidays. I couldn’t do the double life after I graduated. I told the family.”
She doesn’t go on. She probably believes I can figure out what happened after that.
“You’ve been in Delhi five years, and this is the first time you’ve come to see me?”
She is abashed. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I hadn’t seen you in so long. I didn’t know how you’d take it after the way everyone treated you.”
I let it go even though I’m not convinced. “Why’re you here now?” I ask her.
She looks away, her tongue working her upper lip. “I was a gallery associate at the Thapar Art Gallery,” she says a little later. “They downsized and I lost my job. That was two months ago. Whatever savings I had were soon wiped out. I was living in a flat with two other girls. This morning my landlady kicked me out when my flatmates refused to pay my share of the rent.”
She has nowhere else to go.
A female security guard, dressed in dark trousers and a blue short-sleeved shirt, approaches the table. “You have to leave,” she says. “The mall is closing. We are going into lockdown.”
Bhavana waits until she is out of earshot. “Please let me stay with you,” she says. “I won’t be a bother, I promise. I’ll cook, clean. It’s only temporary. I’ll leave the moment I find another job.”
Her eyes are beseeching me. I’m mad at her for making me her port of call only when she has nowhere else to turn. But I can’t say no in such circumstances.
The metro is fuller than usual at this time of the day. The impending lockdown has ruptured the walls that exist between strangers. Conversation swirls all over the coach. Some people are fearful, others merely curious. A few look forward to an unanticipated break from work. The preoccupation with the lockdown means that Bhavana is not stared at like she normally would be. I’m more relieved about that than she is. She doesn’t seem to care as she sits with her eyes fastened to her phone. The only time she looks up is to ask if I’ve stocked up on food and medicines. I shake my head. I work six days a week and am far too spent to do much of anything on my day off. “We should go get everything after dropping our stuff at your house,” she tells me before returning to her phone.
Prashant’s substantial, check-shirted back greets us in the building’s ground-floor lobby. He’s waiting for the lift. I stop on my tracks.
“Let’s wait for the lift to come back,” I say to Bhavana.
She glances at Prashant’s back before turning to me. A knowing look enters her eyes. “No way,” she says.
She tugs savagely at her suitcase. The lift lands with a thud. Its doors open as if they’re being prised apart. Bhavana marches in after Prashant’s back. I follow on leaden feet.
It is a small lift in which no more than three people can stand comfortably. Bhavana’s suitcase makes it a tight squeeze. She smiles at Prashant as the lift starts grinding up. She towers over his short, pudgy frame. Prashant’s beady eyes widen as he gazes at her. He steps back so that he’s pinned to the lift’s yellow-stained wall.
“Hello, Uncle,” her voice is deeper and thicker than anything I’ve heard before. “I’m Yashji’s niece. I’ll be staying with him for a while.”
She extends her hand with a smile. A few seconds trudge past before Prashant’s hand edges towards Bhavana’s as if it’s being tugged. Bhavana squeezes it when they shake, holding on for longer than necessary. Prashant swallows, glancing anxiously at the red light showing the lift’s progress.
Bhavana takes her time getting herself and her suitcase out of the lift on the top floor. Prashant has to wait several seconds before he can heave himself out. He waddles away as fast as he can.
“Bye, Uncle,” Bhavana calls after him.
“From now on he’ll do the waiting,” she tells me with a smirk.
My cleaning lady went to her village to visit her folks a week ago. She was supposed to come back in ten days. Now I don’t expect to see her until after the lockdown. I haven’t done any cleaning since she left. It didn’t matter when I was living alone. Now I’m embarrassed as I show Bhavana round the flat. What will she think of an uncle who can’t be bothered to clean his home? Today the flat is dirtier than ever. The dining room is a disaster. The red carpet in the middle has coffee and food stains. The coffee table and dining table are crying out to be rubbed down with a wet cloth. The sofa and loveseat need to be dusted. Dirt clings to the cement floor and white walls. My bedroom is just as bad. The unmade bed makes it appear even messier. The kitchen and bathroom are in better shape. In the case of the kitchen that is probably because I haven’t been cooking much. I wiped the bathroom floor on my day off, which was yesterday.
Some of Deepak’s film studies books are still visible among the books crammed in the bookcase that stands in my bedroom. I haven’t had the heart to discard them. Bhavana shows no interest in them or any of the other books. She pauses, however, in front of a picture of Deepak and me.
“Who is he?” she asks.
“Deepak. He’s a friend.”
“You two must be close. His pictures are everywhere.”
She gives me a curious look. I’m relieved she doesn’t dig further. Soon we’re on our way to the neighborhood market which is flowing with people. The shopping takes much longer than usual as we visit several shops. Bhavana keeps adding to the list of things we need to get. When it’s time to pay, she says, “Uncle,” and holds out her hand for the money. I’m reminded of when I’d buy her sweets in Kanpur.
It is evening by the time we return to the flat with our carry bags. The first thing Bhavana wants to know after we’ve stowed the groceries and medicines is whether I have Netflix and Amazon Prime. She is aghast to find I have neither. “What do you do when you’re home?” she asks. “I read,” I tell her. “Sometimes I watch the news.” “I didn’t think people read anymore,” she says.
We’re both tired by now. I heat up two frozen meals for dinner. Bhavana offers to wash up after we’ve eaten. I say good night to her and retreat to my bedroom. She’ll be sleeping on the drawing room sofa.
I hear her voice through the thin bedroom wall when I wake up in the middle of the night. It’s too low for me to make out what she’s saying. I conclude she’s on the phone from the way her voice keeps stopping to start up a little later. Who can it be at this time of the night? I wonder before going back to sleep.
The street below is desolate when I look down from the window in the morning. Normally, it’d be full of traffic, pedestrians and hawkers working up a cacophony of loud voices and blaring horns. Today, all I can hear is the birds. They seem to be cackling at the human misery unfolding below.
Bhavana is already up when I go to the drawing room in my kurta-pyjama. She is wearing a blue night suit. Her face is hidden behind a Loverboy she found under the sofa. On another day, the sight of a muscled, well-sculpted model dressed only in brief underpants would have generated a different kind of heat in my face. Today I am embarrassed.
“Give me that,” I tell her.
She stares at me. “I’m not a kid,” she says.
I can’t bring myself to look at her. “Please,” I mumble.
“I’ve seen worse,” she says as she hands over the magazine.
I lock it away in my bedroom closet before collapsing on my bed with a sigh. Bhavana shouts to say she is going to use the bathroom. I tell her to go ahead. I search the flat for anything else that she might find. There is another issue of Loverboy tucked in the bookshelves. I lock it away as well.
Bhavana emerges from the bathroom an hour later. She is wearing minimal makeup, some foundation and lipstick. For the first time, I get a good look at her face. I was too concerned with the Loverboy in the morning and she was heavily made up yesterday. She has naturally long eyelashes and doesn’t need false ones. Laser hair removal will soften her face. She has high cheekbones, which I’d certainly enhance if I were doing her makeup. I’d also diminish her Adam’s apple by applying a contouring cream that is at least two shades darker than her skin tone.
She offers to make lunch. I accept without thinking. I regret my decision at lunchtime. Her dal is watery, she’s overcooked the vegetables, and her chapati is so hard and dry that I feel like spitting it out.
“I’m sorry,” she says in a rueful voice. “I was raised to have a wife cook for me.”
“How have you survived in Delhi?” I ask her.
“One of the other girls would cook while I did her share of the cleaning.”
I can see the writing on the wall.
“You clean and I’ll cook,” I tell her.
Deepak did most of the cooking when we were together. His job as a college lecturer gave him the time. I was too tired at the end of my work day to do anything except eat. On my day off, we’d cook together. Sometimes we made Chinese. Other times we were in the mood for a Mughlai curry or a South Indian idli or dosa. When we were feeling adventurous, we tried our hand at Continental or Mexican food. That rarely went well.
After Deepak left, cooking seemed like too much work. I guess it was me balking at the idea of doing something on my own that we’d done together. Soon the only thing I was fixing was a simple breakfast and the odd cup of tea. Otherwise, I’d eat at the mall or order takeout.
It takes me a while to get into the swing of things when I go to make dinner that evening. As I start preparing dal fry, I wonder how often I should rinse the lentils in water. Once I pour them in the pressure cooker, I’m not sure about the amount of turmeric powder I need to add. I’m almost done with the sarson ka saag when I remember that I forgot to add radish. I hope the taste is not too bitter. I can hear Deepak make a tsking noise with his tongue each time I get something wrong. “Time to shed crocodile tears,” he whispers when the spices and onions make me tear up.
I don’t know how much better my efforts are from Bhavana’s as I lay the dal, saag and paranthas on the dining table. I relax only after she gives me the thumbs up. She feasts on the food as if she hasn’t eaten in days. “I’d never order out if I could cook like this,” she declares once she’s finished.
I thank her and return to my food. I find her staring at me when I look up. She’s pushed her dirty plate aside and is studying me with her chin propped on her fist.
“Yes,” I say.
She continues to stare. I place the food in my hand on my plate.
“What is it?” I ask.
“How long have you been grieving?”
I’m taken aback. “What do you mean?”
She points to a picture of Deepak and me on the wall to her left. “I see him everywhere I turn. But he’s not here. When did you two break up?”
“It’s none of your business,” I tell her.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it. I can pretty much figure it out anyways. I have a BA in art. I can read images.” She gestures to the picture. “There you’re looking at him as if he’s the center of your world. You can’t see anything else. Yet he doesn’t look at you. He’s off looking in the distance. He enjoys your admiration, but that’s not why he’s smiling. His smile is all about what he sees for himself out there. I can see that in every picture.”
I don’t know what to say. I’ve never seen my relationship with Deepak like that. She says she’ll get started on the dishes and leaves with her dirty plate. I remain where I am. I can’t bring myself to finish my food. In the end I empty my plate in the garbage can and retreat to my bedroom.
I couldn’t believe my luck when Deepak and I started dating. I was thirty-seven then. Deepak was only twenty-two. He was already publishing in famous scholarly journals. Yet he wanted to be with me. I was anxious to do what I could to keep him. That included pouring my savings into this flat. I believed giving our love a home would solidify our relationship.
I didn’t even know he had applied to NYU. I was taken aback when he said he was leaving. He went on about what a wonderful opportunity it was and the doors it could open for him. He wasn’t concerned about us in the slightest.
Now it appears I shouldn’t have expected otherwise, for I had him as much as an adoring fan has his favorite star.
The street downstairs looks grayer than ever as the lockdown stretches. The relentless silence is unnerving. I never thought I’d miss Delhi’s din so much. I join in enthusiastically when everyone bangs pots and pans to celebrate healthcare workers. The brief burst of wall-to-wall noise is comforting. It assures me that things can go back to the way they were.
Our life in the flat soon settles into a rhythm. Part of the day goes to completing household chores. Bhavana chats on her phone or watches something on Youtube on her laptop. I keep myself busy re-reading novels. I’d love to order some new ones but Amazon is only delivering essential items. Dinesh calls a zoom meeting with the staff every few days to discuss what to do once the store opens. That’s his way of keeping us in touch with work. It’s a poor substitute. I feel incomplete without the brush belt round my waist. I’m not used to holding books all day. I long for my brushes and petri dish. What I wouldn’t do to go back to reading faces and dreaming up ways to make them beautiful.
By the end of the second week, it is apparent that the lockdown will be extended. The rate of infection is way too high. Our grocery stocks are running low. Bhavana teaches me how to shop for groceries online. “Everything will now come to our doorstep,” she says.
She continues to live out of her suitcase even after I offer to clear some shelves in my bedroom closet for her. Maybe it’s her way of assuring herself that this is a temporary arrangement. I don’t insist. I’m far more concerned about her talking on the phone at night. I can hear her no matter what time I wake up in the middle of the night. She is often red-eyed in the morning. Some days her eyes are puffy and I can tell that she’s been crying. When the lockdown is extended for two more weeks, I decide to get to the bottom of it.
“Who do you talk to at night?” I ask the next day.
We are in the drawing room after dinner. She is lounging on the sofa with her phone while I’m in the loveseat.
“It’s my business,” she says.
She sounds irritated.
“What you do in my house is my business.”
She grits her teeth as she looks away. I take a deep breath. I just sounded like my dad. I didn’t think that was possible.
“I want to help, Bhavana.” I try to make my voice as gentle as I can. “You don’t have to be afraid.”
She is quiet. My stomach knots as the silence stretches.
“I have a boyfriend,” she says finally.
Her voice is low. Her tongue is working her upper lip. The knot in my stomach tightens.
“Who is he?” I ask.
“His name is Anirudh. He manages the art gallery where I worked.”
I’m surprised. “And he let you get fired?”
There is a short pause before she mumbles, “The owner wouldn’t listen to him.”
Her eyes haven’t met mine since we started talking about her boyfriend. There is something wrong here. Then it comes to me. All those nightly conversations on the phone, conducted at a time when everyone is asleep.
“He’s married, isn’t he?”
From the way her face blanches I know I’m right.
“Kids?”
“Two.” Her voice is a whisper.
I place my hand on my forehead. Like I’d do when I feel a migraine coming on.
“Sometimes people like us believe we have to take love where we can find it,” I tell her. “Is that what you believe? Or are you stupid enough to think this man will leave his wife and kids for you?”
Her lips are clenched together. Her chin is trembling. She is close to tears. Suddenly she gets up and heads in the direction of the bathroom. I feel wretched as I watch her go.
That night I lie awake in bed. I hear Bhavana’s voice close to midnight. She makes no effort to lower it. She is asking Anirudh about their future. He can’t seem to come up with a suitable answer. Her voice grows more perturbed as the back and forth goes on for several minutes. “You know I can’t do that,” she keeps repeating. Suddenly, she stops speaking. I don’t hear her again. I wonder if she’s switched off the phone.
I find her shrunk in the drawing room sofa in the morning. Her eyes are swollen. I sit down next to her and put my arm round her shoulders. She doesn’t say anything. A fat tear tracks down her face. It reminds me of when she’d cry as a kid and I’d wonder how someone so slight could produce such big tears. I put my arms round her and pull her close. Her body convulses as she sobs into my kurta. This is the first time I’ve held someone from my family in sixteen years. The thought brings tears to my eyes.
I don’t know how long it is before she stops crying. “I’m sorry,” she says in a shaky voice.
“It’s okay.”
She scrubs her face dry with a handkerchief. Once she’s done, she sits still gazing straight ahead. I wait.
“He said it’s my fault,” she says finally. “If I’d committed to a sex change everything would be different. We’d be together.” She pauses. “I tried to do what he asked,” she says. “I went for hormone therapy. My blood pressure shot up. When I started getting chest pains I got scared and stopped. The idea of surgery frightened me. Still does. One of my friends’ tracheal shaves was botched up.” She taps her Adam’s apple. “There was a lot of bleeding. She has a horrible scar and her voice is damaged permanently. I can’t get that out of my mind.”
I take her hand. “It’s better to wait for someone who loves you for who you are,” I tell her.
“Will there ever be someone like that?”
Her voice is sad. I swallow.
“I’m sure there will be,’ I say.
She is quiet. A little later, she places her head on my shoulder. I put my arm round her and pat her lightly on the back as we sit there in silence.
The lockdown is extended again at the end of two weeks. Two weeks after that, the rules restricting e-commerce are loosened and Amazon announces it will start delivering books. I quickly order the novels I want. They arrive a few days later in the middle of the afternoon. I carry the package to my bedroom. After placing it on the floor, I contemplate the bursting shelves of the bookcase. I’m wondering how to arrange the new books in there when Bhavana comes in for a word.
It’s been difficult to watch her over the past month. Her nightly conversations may have ceased, but the deepening circles round her eyes indicate she’s not getting much sleep. She has little appetite for food. She sits on the sofa and stares in the distance for hours. I’ve tried to do what I can to help while knowing I can’t do much. Happiness can be shared but grieving is solitary. The best anyone can do is not make things worse.
Today, however, the heaviness seems to have lifted from her face.
“I got a call for an interview next week,” she says.
I didn’t know she’d applied anywhere. Moreover, how do you interview during a lockdown? “It’s an online interview,” she says when I ask her.
I hadn’t thought of that. I smile with a shake of the head. “Who is it?”
“It’s an art gallery in Mumbai. A friend works there. She set it up.”
My heart lurches when I hear Mumbai.
“If I get the job, they’ll expect me to move there once the travel restrictions are lifted,” she says.
Somehow, I keep my smile intact. “A new city, a new start. Maybe that’s what you need.”
“That’s what I thought.” She hesitates. “Can I ask you a favor?”
“Anything.”
“It’s a big gallery and I really want the job. I want to be at my best at the interview. Will you do my makeup?”
A lump grows in my throat. “I’d love to,” I tell her.
“Thank you,” she hugs me.
A thought strikes me as she steps back. “Bhavana.”
“Yes.”
“No matter what happens you’ll always be welcome here. We are related and that’s not a temporary arrangement.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” she says in a hushed voice. She turns to leave the room. I wait for the door to close behind her before collapsing on my bed. She could flunk the interview. But something tells me she won’t. Soon I’ll be saying goodbye to her. The thought floods me with sadness. I sit there drowning in it for god knows how long. By the time I heave myself to my feet, the room is growing dark. The package of books still stands on the floor. I contemplate the bookcase. Some of the old books will have to go to make room for the new ones. There is no other way.
I get a cardboard box out of the closet for the books I don’t want to keep. Then I begin choosing them. I start with Deepak’s.
VIKRAM KAPUR has a PhD in creative and critical writing from the University of East Anglia where he received the India-Africa bursary. He has published three novels: The Assassinations; A Novel of 1984, The Wages of Life and Time Is a Fire. He also edited an anthology of writing on the 1984 anti-Sikh pogrom called 1984, In Memory and Imagination. His short fiction and pieces of nonfiction have been published or are forthcoming in World Literature Today, Ambit, Litro, New Writing, The Hong Kong Review, Mekong Review, Berlin Quarterly, Himal Southasian, Huffington Post India and elsewhere. His story “Unmade Lives” was picked up by the Los Angeles Review of Books and placed on their homepage as a story to read in May 2021. His short fiction has been recognized in several competitions which include, among others, the Fish International Short Story Prize and the British Commonwealth’s Short Story Prize. For his writing he has received fellowships for residencies at the Vermont Studio Center and the Can Serrat Arts Center. He is a professor of English at Shiv Nadar University in India. His website is vikramkapur.com.