It was one of those antique days when there was nothing on TV to engage my tastes or any good movie that I could dabble in. In such an overwhelming boredom with the same melancholy again gnawing at my soul, I decided that it was a high time for me to go for a long walk, which for quite sometime I’ve been looking forward to. I grabbed my boots and headed for the dark and lonely quarters of my nameless city. My city isn’t big neither is it a thriving metropolis, yet you can easily lose yourself in its thick envelope of gloom. My stagnant city reeks of decay and decrepitude, even though it is growing and is touted to become a thriving conurbation within a decade or so. Like its many inhabitants I have tried to struggle against this paradox, have tried to flee away from its defeat, but to no avail. But then on second there is no need to escape, is it? Even Faulkner inherited the lost legacy of the Deep South, but he didn’t escape. He made the defeat his own and created his own literary territory, calling it “Yoknapatawpha”, his own “apocryphal county”. Moreover, he churned out of this defeat a series of novels that uncovered the intricate mysteries of the human heart. As an aspiring author, I have pondered on the question of setting a gazillion times. Perhaps I could view my city from the Exterior and write about it, much like Jhumpa Lahiri or Salman Rushdie. But that would limit my picture as I know nothing of that Exterior. I have and always been a part of the Interior and this is what I know about. It is said that a writer should write only about those things that he knows best; I know nothing but this “centre of paralysis” which is my city and this is what I want to explore through my writings.