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When I was very young, I remember the TV being called the “idiot box”. That was the time in the late nineties when cable television had started making inroads into middle-class homes in India and parents were terrified of the children becoming slaves to the small screen. The parental concern, however, had been a global phenomenon since as early as the 1960s. Television was widely touted as the nemesis of books and libraries and bibliophiles. So much so, that in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory Roald Dahl had a whole song dedicated to the devastating effect of television on young minds.

Do the things we love never really leave us? Do they really have a way of coming back to us eventually? Maybe there are very few people in this world, who have never lost anything or anyone they once had been inseparable from. Love, in its entirety, is a chameleon of a concept. No two loves are the same, neither are any two pairs of lovers. The love you thought was long gone, conveniently buried in the deepest crevices of your heart, might resurface without a warning, wreaking havoc. Or sometimes, it would silently but persistently keep gnawing at the back of your mind.