its still dangerous
In my childhood I had been afflicted with a literate babysitter who kept me entertained and killed boredom by reading aloud to me. The choice of reading matter was not restricted to children’s fare, but anything available at home in the vernacular. As a result I was exposed to the classics and epics and translations of major foreign works, which I could not comprehend, but enjoyed the resonance of words. Both my parents being avid readers, there were plenty of books available at home, and we never ran short of reading material. I sometimes repeated lines heard from these books in adult company, which gave rise to speculation that I was either a child prodigy, or had memories of past lives.
Starting kindergarten and my spectacular lack of success there soon laid rest to such speculation. But despite my poor form in school, the one…
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