Arijit Lahiri writes like your group chat at 2 a.m.—half confessions, half cosmic jokes, sprinkled with existential dread. His work lives somewhere between story, poem, and essay, like a browser with too many tabs open. He believes in bad Wi-Fi as metaphor, in heartbreak with cinematic lighting, and in literature as a side hustle with feelings. Sometimes his characters cooperate, sometimes they unionize. Either way, he keeps typing.
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