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Ranjani Neriya
It began with the first whiff of wet laterite in an acreage of trees, awash with monsoons and bird calls in leaf-green. My father’s huge library, where ’westerns,’ his favorites, were propped alongside other literary gems, showed how words could transport one into sheer magical territory. The long walks to the halls of learning were strewn with the clatter of horse hooves and the musical calls of itinerant vendors. All of this comes together in a sheaf of words, a vanished vista but vibrantly alive in memory.
