And she lived it all again! From a faint afternoon shade of the sun, to the echo of a familiar cadence in Georges Moustaki or Nana Mouskouri, she got it all back – her lived childhood in the 1970s, her idyllic Pune home, the romance that her life was with her pretty and handsome parents. The sepia tinted images of yellow sunshine and auburn greens and the lilac reds, her gardens of innocence. The sounds of Simon and Garfunkel and Zorba de Grecque, of Nat King Cole and the blues, and Leonard Cohen. She was transported to a land unknown, reframed in memories and quiet recollections in a langue alien, but yet, so real. She lived them all again, now in her forties with eyes yet curious, but chastened, quietened, yet she looked on, through the veil of yesteryears and realised, how, each thing that gave her life was all but a repetition of that old clock, that would, in some ways, in many ways, perpetuate the life she once lived in those first six, seven years. The colours of affection, the sounds of warmth, the carelessness of laughter and the freedom of movement. That was all she had ever lived for and all she would die for. That was all her education and all her books and all her writings, her ink and her pens. That was the metaphor of life for her now, and for all times.

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