The memory of the moment is imprinted on some stubborn neurons that refuse to die. Even after 70 years, when I remember that moment, the pain in my left cheek is still sharp.
I was 10 then and spent my summer holidays with my grandfather in a small hill town in India. One morning, he took me for a walk through the town’s narrow streets.
As we walked the graceful curves of arabesque motifs on the dome of a majestic mosque came to view. Through the arched portal, I saw a vast expanse of the chequered marble floor. My grandfather, a not-so-devout-Hindu, stopped in front of the mosque, pressed…
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