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[Excerpts from The God of Small Things; picture by Mayank Austen Soofi]
On the roof of the abandoned factory, the lonely drummer drummed. A gauze door slammed. A mouse rushed across the factory floor. Cobwebs sealed old pickle vats. Empty, all but one – in which a small heap of congealed white dust lay. Bone dust from a Bar Nowl. Long dead. Pickledowl.