My creative practice spans essays, poetry and visual storytelling. With work published across literary platforms and photography exhibited in group shows and featured in print, I focus on projects that explore themes of identity and its influence on human interaction, community and language.

Professionally I work within the art world – across digital focus, heritage, and editorial writing – bringing together creative insight with a strong understanding of how the industry operates behind the scenes.

I had yesterday a bottle of sriracha on my counter. She turned to the group and asked, 'isn't this evening lovely? aren't we so happy to be here?' The light was fading over the mountains and the woman on the internet was saying something to the world.

On the fifth floor of Queen's Mansion, two serpentine flights above the gallery, the bird doctor tends to a wounded wing. In the monsoons, the smell of flesh trails all the way down and out to the front gate, where I was standing when Shailesh Mehta asked if I knew about eagles.

From a neem tree outside the Commissioner's office, a wailing eagle was rescued. In the thick Bombay rains, their vision blurs and branches or buildings strike them unexpectedly. Shailesh parts the feathers of her right wing– like rending a damp shroud in the winter, like the scent of ruin on my skin– to reveal peachy bone and an open wound that the doctor will dress later that evening.

She croaks as he tucks her wing back in before settling her down in his basket. With the empty box from a previous rescue, Shailesh mounts his Active 6G ambulance and rides off into the distance– to another bird in a different tree. He tells me July is his busiest season.

For most of 2004 especially, I refused to sleep. When it got bad, my mother would cite the great sacrifice, turn on her side and languish. My father, many trials and errors later, found the solution in the convex mirror on the coconut tree outside the parking lot of Anita Building. It would contort my face so I couldn't recognise myself–perhaps a welcome break from the symbolic I had recently become acquainted with– in the early hours, a misrecognition– a moment of recall– pre-linguistic, coherent, safe.

[According to Lacan, from the moment the image of unity is posited in opposition to the experience of fragmentation, the subject is established as a rival to itself. A conflict is produced between the infant's fragmented sense of self and the imaginary autonomy out of which the ego is born]

A thousand mangoes were stolen from Dadi's farm last night– in the bludgeoning, pre-monsoon rain. Raju was sent to Thane by train this morning to investigate (and return with the muddy remains)