Perhaps, I dream too little or maybe, I know too much about how the world works but when I’m asked about the kind of writing that I want to pursue or do, the first answer that comes to my head is—an utterly selfish one. I don’t do things for others. I don’t write for others. My head is far too heavy to think about anyone else’s life. Any change someone ever attributed my words to have brought in their life, I strongly believe, would’ve occurred anyway. If not for the nudge of my words, then by someone else’s, and if not for that, then eventually, of their own accord. The clay’s virtue is to take form irrespective of whose hand is on the wheel as long as the wheel keeps spinning.