As you grow older, several unpleasant problems must be confronted. Amongst them falls the inevitable consequence of children growing up, leaving home, stubbornly refusing to take their effects with them and angrily refusing to let you give them away.
Their books are the worst offenders and this long preamble is because of them. Last week during the annual cleaning before Diwali, I happened on a 24-volume set of the Puranas meant for children, packed into cartons and stored safely in a loft. Just as I was gloomily pondering over their fate, this volume by Sudha Murty arrived, sent by one of the editors of this journal with an accompanying note that said ‘Perchance for your grandchildren. Till then, you read it.’