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hello hyderabad (the saddest story i ever heard) vivek nemana

I arrived   in   India   on   February   8,   finally,   after   months   of   quiet   anticipation   and   brazen   fantasy.   My   uncle   and   aunt   dropped   me   off   at   Sharjah   International   Airport   late   at   night.   It   wasn’t   sad   to   say   goodbye   because   I   would   see   them   again   in   15   days.   I   checked   in,   hung   out,   ordered   a   drink,  read  from  my  Kindle,  and  boarded  the  flight.     An   Indian   woman,   probably   in   her   late   30s,   was   sitting   in   my   assigned   seat,   next   to   the   window.   She   was   dressed   in   robes   that   Muslim   women   in   India   typically   wear,   I   think,   which  are  roomy  and  modest  but  aren’t  quite  as  formal  as  a   burqa.  She  seemed  poor,  lower-­‐caste.  The  air  hostess  asked   her  to  move  over  one  seat  but  she  didn’t  understand.  Then   the  air  hostess  yelled  at  her  and  she  moved,  and  I  took  my   seat.  I  listened  to  M83  on  my  iPod  and  read  Ham  on  Rye  by   Bukowski.   I   had   never   read   anything   by   Bukowski   before,   but  it  occurred  to  me  that  the  way  I  write  someone  might   think   I   was   trying   to   imitate   him.   At   least   in   the   way   my  

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Cityscapes  

It is well known that people ascribe different cities with their own identities; our urban landscapes most certainly have their own unique w...

Cityscapes  

It is well known that people ascribe different cities with their own identities; our urban landscapes most certainly have their own unique w...

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