Dear Words,
I walked into your abode as a five year old. Mumma gifted me a book of fairy-tales. The magic in them seemed possible. After all, kids don't know reality and how it breaks them. Slowly, taking steps forward. Very tiny steps. I read pictorial adaptations of The Jungle Book, Pinocchio, Lion King and all those famous Disney flicks.
Once, I was gifted an english translation of The Mahabharata. Initially, I took a interest. I would ask Mumma to read it. But, soon, got bored. This was at the age of eight. Words took a break, then. Then at the age of eleven, I found Enid Blyton. This wonderful writer knew us children so well. Soon, my cupboard was full of her books. Then, a storm named JK Rowling hit. It was love at first read, like all teens.
Then, I moved into the genre of crime. Lapping up Sherlock Holmes and Hercule Poirot was sheer joy. The next stop was the sly storytelling of Jeffrey Archer. He's a maestro unmatched. Right now, my eyes are on poetry. I feel were just getting ready for a wonderful ride. I would love suggestions for some beautiful books. I am quite hungry.
Your Loyal Lover
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