Ever since I was a paper boy, tottering under the weight of my Sunday bag, crammed full with worthy broadsheets and sleazy rags, I have had a passion for newspapers -
Before I put Strawberry Fields Forever on the radiogram, I studied the pages of The Portsmouth Evening News, gazed fearfully at spooky classified announcements in The Times -
Later, in Portsmouth Record Office, I would turn the crackling pages of The Hampshire Chronicle, reading a report of a rick burning or bloody naval victory off Ushsant -
In Kerala, it was just the same - in Murari, sitting before the white serviced villa, I would pick up a pristine copy of The New Indian Express - there we so many stories to sigh over, to read whilst drinking coffee flavoured with cardamon -
In Fort Cochin, Thakkad Junction, Varkala and Manapilly there were other newspapers to delight me - The Times of India, The Decaan Chronicle, The Hindu -
This teeming vivid world of India came to life for me, with these reports of political murders, striking auto rickshaw drivers, revamps in police echelons, tanker lorries turning turtle -
Like a weary world leader, I would then swim lazily in the forgiving sea -
In Fort Cochin, Thakkad Junction, Varkala and Manapilly there were other newspapers to delight me - The Times of India, The Decaan Chronicle, The Hindu -
This teeming vivid world of India came to life for me, with these reports of political murders, striking auto rickshaw drivers, revamps in police echelons, tanker lorries turning turtle -
Like a weary world leader, I would then swim lazily in the forgiving sea -
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