By Namitha Varma
You were nestling atop the bookshelf, between a battered Harold Robbins and a few tomes of Umberto Eco, patiently waiting for someone to take you home. You were picked up endlessly by second-hand book hunters but dismissed, for more contemporary choices like Baldacci and Brown. Your cover spoke of neglect; your leaves were dry and crumbling. Yet, I could not put you back, and I bought you for a paltry Rs. 45. You looked at me quizzically I thought, as if questioning my judgment on taking you home, but you also seemed grateful for the relief from your high perch. I could sympathise with your acrophobia, however well you hid it all these years.
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