Chitrangada Mukherjee

“11 pm: Heart’s pounding, hands shaking. Have these knots in my stomach. But drinking isn’t an option. Maa is sleeping with me. Baba in Lalitaji’s room. And she on the sofa.
Want to step into the toilet, take one swig, and then go directly to sleep. How the hell will Maa know? I mean she’s sleeping like a log. No, no, shouldn’t. What if she wakes up? She’s a light sleeper, after all.
11.30 pm: No wine. Or vodka. Terrible, terrible night. When will they go back to Kolkata and let me be?
11.32 pm: Chhi . . .Chhi . . . How selfish am I? My parents, one with a heart condition, spent thousands on flight tickets and landed in Chennai. Why? Because they wanted to spend time with their widowed daughter. And what does the daughter want? To sneak into the toilet and take one good swig of wine. Shame on her!
Okay, now I’m being over-dramatic.”
― Chitrangada Mukherjee, Secret Diary of an Incurable Romantic

“It was love. That pure, naive, untarnished emotion which seeds into you when you read fairy tales. Listen to honey-imbued words served by melodious voices. Avoid looking at your bitter squabbling parents. It skulked into me, making me its home.”
― Chitrangada Mukherjee, Red is Her Colour: Un-Love Series Book 1