Dear writer Dear writer, For the umpteenth time I'm writing this warning note: What if my story ends here with "that was the last time she breathed" sentence? That's when we are struck by the ugliest truths of life. Friday, 7th March 2014: "Please, just a sip. Just a sip." It was Chaya's voice. End of that week, bottles were devoid of even a single drop of water, but I had 'mine'. That evening, I went home with a half-empty bottle and Chaya with parched throat.