Who Owns My Name? Who Owns My Identity?
I was 24, and he was 53. I wanted him to hug me and perhaps love me- a love that could be an emollient to an aching heart and a disgruntled soul. I was sick of being unloved for long. A 6'x6' cubicle of a sales office on the 20th floor of the DLF building in Gurgaon is hardly a place for a 'relationship', and I was looking for someone, anyone, to stitch my heart. The wound I got at 16 had maggots growing on them, and heartbreak at 23 was the last straw on the camel's back. It broke me into innumerable pieces, and I didn’t care which piece fell where. It refused to heal. My world had become small, lonely, and apocalyptic. It was just another cold, foggy morning in Delhi, and I was in a rush to get coffee from the vending machine- a ritual I followed every morning, stepping into the white LED-lit office with ash grey carpet that looked more crummy after a morning vacuum, and cobalt blue swivel chairs reeking of stale perfume. Every day, every interaction, e...