By Aarti Lila Ram
I find myself enveloped in the raw grip of grief. When I was young, my nana baba possessed a magical ability that left an indelible mark on my heart. He could weave tales with such vivid expressions and animated fervor that even the most mundane stories came alive in his presence. To me, he was nothing but magic. And he was. The enchantment of my childhood resides within the walls of my grandparents’ home in Hyderabad, where their love imbued every corner with warmth. Nana baba’s house was always snug, perhaps even a little too warm at times. The constant tick-tock of the clock in his drawing room filled the air with a comforting rhythm, and the smell of books in his library, collected and put together with years of struggles and hardships, added to the rich tapestry of my cherished memories.
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