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The long dark grey mother firewood8/29/2023 Life had taken on such a fractured and fragmented form that it became difficult to hope. Every day brought death and with every hour, new faces of fear, dread and dismay. After all, living in Srinagar in the early 1990s was not easy. Maybe it was hormones or maybe it was just an escape. I lived in books and at the time I was happy to sit and read my life away. My mother was a professor of English at the university and for as long as I could remember, I was surrounded by books. And if that wasn’t bad enough, I was a child of literature, of stories, of love and of happy endings. An age where you still have the audacity of hoping and dreaming like a child, but the fears of an adult who knows loss also lurk within you. An age where you are neither a child, nor an adult. I was 15 years old, a painful age I must admit.
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