To Enter This Republic, You Must First Forget the MapThis book was not written-it wandered into being. It arrived like a monsoon in exile, dripping stories from its wet hems and whispering names too long lost to alphabet or anthem. It asked no permission. It climbed in through the window at midnight, dragging a suitcase of contradictions, a train ticket from Partition's station, and a half-eaten mango still wet with dream.' This is not a republic with borders. No visas. No checkpoints. It is a shifting country of fable and fire, built on the fault lines of memory, and governed by the ghosts of storytellers who never learned how to die. The citizens of this land include a Fakir with a plastic radio tuned to God's laughter, a woman who mistook rainfall for revolt, and a peacock who forgot how to dance after the world taught him mirrors.They are mythic, yes-but not imaginary. Their truths, like the best truths, prefer to wear masks, to wink beneath layers of metaphor and mischief. Reader, I have tried not to control them. I merely held the pen while they wrote themselves.Welcome to the Republic of Rain and Reverie.Long may it drizzle.