There was a winter morning in Uttarakhand when my fingers wouldn’t stop trembling. I hadn’t eaten. My face was windburnt. The room I was in smelled like wet wool and eucalyptus balm. But I had to write. Not because it was a good idea. Not because anyone was waiting.Because if I didn’t, the story inside me was going to rot. It wasn’t a “content plan.” It wasn’t strategic. It didn’t start with a hook and end with a takeaway. It was a raw, blood-tinged truth that had been pulsing behind my ribs for days. I remember staring at the screen …
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