Nepal, March 30 -- It bathed in dust. 'The Ramayana'.

A mahogany desk, gigantic and looming, stood bare-save for the book it bestowed refuge to. Three years had passed, Gauri realised. The world had changed seasons, and the leaves on trees cycled on dropping and sprouting, yet Gauri's gaze hadn't dawned on the book until this very moment.

Three years of abstaining herself from inhaling and imbibing the essence of 'Ramayana'.

Her father's voice-fragile yet insistent, echoed in her memory, "Read it to me, chori," he had whispered, battling through his final days.

Silent tears fell from her eyes through her cheeks to her lips. Her hands tightened as her fingers wrestled among themselves. An incessant urge to hold the book to her bosom gr...