Like other kids, I have been doodling, scribbling and drawing on tables, hands and question papers since I was a kid and that trait simply carried on and grew while manifesting differently. I was stopped several times, resulting in me being the deviant teenager of the early 90s—the kind of teens who needed to be fixed at all cost, but we could never be fixed, no matter how much torture was introduced to us, even if it wasn’t by our parents. Conversion therapy through religion, behavioral tough love camps—we outlasted every probable one. These things, without any doubt, destroyed, manipulated, shocked, confused and outnumbered my sense of reality, but I am alive. And I am writing this.