The nightly ritual was to curl up with a good book. Little Me would wriggle in between my parents, clutching my own, earnestly pondering the pages and turning them periodically. Amma and Baba still recollect fondly that the book that I was “reading” was often upside-down.
Growing up in Bombay, the days were filled with torrential monsoons and the smell of the jam-stained pages mingling with the fresh, wet earth. Six cities, two continents and well over a decade later, the towering piles of books are continuing their skyward journey as I fruitlessly attempt to read them all, though I don’t think that’s a battle I actually want to win.