As someone who does not write books that transcend time and space and change little girls’ lives, the feathers I leave in books, the grocery bills I use as bookmarks, the underlined sentences, the tear smudges around the corner of the pages are my legacy. 19628 years from now, a boy will pick, from a second-hand book store, a book with a feather that was picked in Jodhpur by a girl who underlined “smallness of his misfortune” because it moved her. The boy will, that day, know this girl better, the girl who dint write that book.
