I opened the file on my phone at a bus stop and had to sit down on the kerb.
There she was: Ananya, crouched in her green kurta and yellow dupatta, three street dogs leaning into her like they had known her for years. Marigolds everywhere. It looked exactly like the inside of my head, which is a strange thing to say about something somebody else drew.
For two years the book was a document. Words in a file, then words in a file with tracked changes, then words in a file I was sick of. And now it has a face. People will judge it by this cover, and for once, I want them to.
What I learned
Finishing is a different skill from starting. Starting is joy. Finishing is mostly patience, and a little stubbornness, and a friend who asks “how’s the book?” often enough that you’re embarrassed into working.