Ankur Betageri

‘My Type, Your Type’

I am not a type – I never type-speak or leave type-fonts on hands I shake. I expand like a chest of mirrors full of the quiver of knives inside.

Fountain in Lalbagh

An arm wearing its own sparkling sleeve sprung out of twirling pantaloons I lean on the air and watch children gasp –

And when I hit the moss my chin’s V fits into the...