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Books are  a form of subtle permanence in a transient world. At the back of my house I have a tiny bookshelf which is full of the Blytons and the Rowlings I spent my childhood inside. Just opening any of them brings back sweet memories, which remind me of the times now gone. Each book I read attaches itself to the bubble of reality that surrounds me at that moment.

Second hand books have always been my go-to, because they help the wallet a lot. When I picked up this tattered hard bound, it was mostly because I was getting a beautiful looking book for Rs 100. I came back from the bookfair and opened it,  and I saw this message at the title page.

Now, I don’t know how this reached India, after 20 years of being gifted to someone. I wasn’t even born at the time Deb saw a freshly printed bunch of pages,  and it reminded her of Rob. I was probably learning the alphabet when this copy was let go by Rob, for reasons unknown. I don’t even know why I wonder so, for a simple message, on a poetic book by a timeless writer,  shouldn’t affect me.

But the strength of the pen scares me.

And thus, the next time I write for someone,  I’ll probably send my Rob a text message.

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