the book i am reading these days successfully achieved what every book in a north-Indian's bag secretly aspires to gain access to: a mustard oil stain. Except my book is lucky, it got two.

the oil leaked quietly out of the lunchbox i packed for myself this morning with the dum-aaloo curry made with kashmiri mirchi. confident that there won't be an oil spill owing to the tupperware box, i had snuck the box in a paper bag and kept it casually in the tote i carry to work.

the jacket of the hardback, depicts a spiney stark cobalt blue. a heavily pregnant, moisture laden beavy of monsoon sky heaped over a Bombay sea, now suddenly looks rundown for the yellow oil taints. almost as if a Mark Rothko painting tried imperfectly by an amateur. half a letter eaten by the stain, three other trying to unsuccessfully cower behind the murky gold.