Binoy was born and bred in the glorious chaos of Mumbai, where every street corner feels like a livewire reality show and the monsoon rains sound like a bass drop. He holds down a comfortable, respectable gig (enough to keep the lights on and the biryani coming), but if you ask him, he’s never cared much for climbing corporate ladders; he’d rather stand on the sidelines, people-watching and snagging stories from stray conversations. He’s the kind of guy whose attention span flits between “one more scroll” and “holy shit, I need to finish this thought before it vanishes,” yet when a raw idea grabs him, he locks in like he’s defusing a bomb. Obsessed with capturing the small, messy dramas that make us human, one minute he’s distracted by a squirrel’s existential crisis, the next he’s scribbling poetry about it. This is his first foray into writing, born from a lifetime of observing, screwing up, learning, and believing—sometimes delusionally—that at our cores, we’re all pretty good people. If nothing else, Binoy’s own flaws have convinced him of that.