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I grew up stealing parts of lives through writers. I dined with the powerful, shook hands with the mighty , had high-tea with the English…words were my friends. The world was at my feet. But as all stories go, a dark robe slowly took charge. The dark robe asked questions that perplexed me, angered me and made me look at things through a different coloured glass. But there was something about it. So I went along. That was my first mistake. I kept allowing this dark robe to run in my mind. He was no ordinary man. He knew magic (black or not). He built factories of jealousy, hatred, anger and fear in my mind. But his main attraction was ‘desire’. Desire was the lion king. When he spoke, all would listen. No one would leave. Not jealousy, not hatred, not anger. They had arrived to stay. And stay, they did. But why did I care? I had words. We were friends. P.G.Wodehouse, Agatha Christie, Enid Blyton…I wanted a meeting. It had been long since we had seen each other. I waited….that’s all I did- wait. I knew it was time to leave. I had dismissed the black robe and his friends. But I still left…realising that words were no longer my friends. At least I have memories left…of a time, of an age.

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