One musing.
A short essay, 600–1,200 words. About the dad in the noodle commercial, or the auto-rickshaw, or the friend I owe a haircut. Written between 11 p.m. and midnight, edited Sunday morning over coffee.
newsletter · sundays · since jan 2024
Sunday letters.
One short essay, in your inbox, most Sundays. Sometimes a short fiction on the side. no threads, no tips, mostly. Designed to be read with the second cup of coffee, before the day asks for anything.
Get the small things, weekly.
1,240 quiet readers. No spam. Unsubscribe in one click. I read every reply — even the angry ones, especially the angry ones.
subscribe on substack →
free · unsubscribe in one click · I read every reply, even the angry ones.
What lands in your inbox.
three things, mostlyA small fiction, sometimes.
About once a month, a short fiction joins the essay — a few hundred words about someone doing something slightly strange. Often unresolved. Always unexplained.
One footnote.
A single line at the bottom of the email — what I'm reading, what I'm writing, what I'm avoiding. Three sentences total. The currently strip, but earlier.
Past letters.
browse the full archive →№ 023may 12
Why I cry at ads but not at things that matter
It's the dad in the noodle commercial. It's never the friend's actual divorce. A theory about distance, another about shame, and an apology that arrived eight weeks too late.
3 min read
№ 022may 04
On leaving messages on read
There are forty-one unanswered texts in my phone right now. I am not avoiding them. I am also not not avoiding them. This is the philosophy of maybe, applied to friendship.
1 min read
№ 021apr 27
Bangalore auto and the philosophy of maybe
The 8:47 auto-rickshaw didn't really say no, but it didn't say yes either, and somewhere inside that ambiguity I had to live for the next eleven minutes.
1 min read
№ 020apr 18
The autocorrect gaslighter
My phone has been telling me my own name is wrong for three years. I keep correcting it. It keeps correcting me back. Somewhere in here is a parable.
1 min read
№ 019apr 09
I have been performing competence for fourteen years
There is a version of me, in meetings, who knows what he is doing. He sits very still. He uses words like "directionally." I do not know him. I keep him alive for the sake of the household.
1 min read
№ 018mar 22
A list of things I almost said
To a stranger on the metro. To a colleague who took credit. To my father in 2014. To my father in 2023. To the boy at the chai stall who knows my order but not my name.
1 min read
The small questions.
five quick answersHow often do you send it, actually?
Most Sundays since January 2024. I have missed three weeks in two years — once for a death, once for a flu, once because I couldn't get the ending right and refused to send a piece I didn't believe in. I am proudest of the third one.
Is there a paid tier?
No. There will probably never be a paid tier. If there ever is, the free essays will keep being free. The voice doesn't change at the paywall, and I am not interested in the kind of writing that would change at one.
What do you do with my email address?
The list lives on Substack, which sends you the essay and nothing else. I never sell it, trade it, or hand it to anyone. No referral programs, no growth hacks. Unsubscribe is one click and works the first time.
Will you read my reply?
Yes.Every one. Usually within a week. Sometimes within a month, if it's a hard one. The interesting replies, with permission, become the next essay. I have written four essays this year that started as a reader's reply.
Can I forward an essay to someone?
Please do. The handwritten line at the bottom of every essay — “if you found something here, tell someone” — is not decorative. Forwarding is how this place grows. Tell someone.
↳ one more time, for the road —
get the small things, weekly.
no spam · unsubscribe in one click · I read every reply.