When I look back, I see myself as an Indian city on the verge of finding an identity. And then I lost control, expanded without direction, without a plan, becoming a vast series of interconnected roads, chaotic lanes, and fumes that left my body and mind exhausted. It’s true, every love story has been told. Every hidden kiss, every love letter, every heartbreak, accounted for and documented—it’s been said. Mine is no exception, but like everything else my version will exist as well. To get it right, I’ll start at the beginning. Love stories, they deserve to be told—the way they bloomed, every little etch on the soul, every shift in the core, every fuck—like it was last night.
The tale of a widow finding herself through reading a shelf of Western philosophers (or so we're told), through teaching (with disastrous results when a teenaged girl decides to demonstrate de Beauvoir by uncovering a breast), and through a threesome with a married couple. The wife who appears to have a number of psychosomatic disorders ultimately leaves for the hills leaving the widow and her husband to each other while she does some soul-searching of her own.