I hadn't heard from my male best friend in longer than a month. So naturally, when I received a text from him the night before I had to leave for Hyderabad to attend a conference, I was elated. We scheduled a call at 8am the next morning, when I knew I'd be in the cab heading to the airport and would have the luxury of indulging in uninterrupted conversation for at least 40 minutes. We had to bring each other up to speed on all things significant and mundane that had transpired in each of our lives since we'd last touched base. Because he was offering me his usual undivided attention, I felt encouraged to articulate some deeply personal insights I'd recently arrived upon.

I told him how I'd found myself uniquely troubled by a fresh discovery about my angst. I had found, lately, that I am somewhat resentful about being invited to events solely as a member of the press. It is a form of typecasting, and it works on the assumption that the only contribution I can possibly make to any literary or art-related event is through reportage. In fact, I secretly had begun to wonder why it is that I am never invited to things on the merit of my proven identity as an author, reviewer, and art critic. It's disconcerting because while I have great respect for the press, it is sometimes odd to be put in situations where I am meant to appeal to the egos of they who I in fact consider to be my peers.