In a coastal town in South India, voices merge, over days and months, across small towns and cities, sounds falling so quietly around literature, inside rooms and tea-shops, hovering around creative impulses and the mundanities of everyday life, on having a room of one’s own, a letter after another turning into a word, stretching into a line, the tapping of words as it stacks into a paragraph, on writers and writing, on music and soundscapes, on the joy of creating and unconventional spaces. 

Magic Mongrel grew its roots here, amongst these voices.