We are living through strange times. As a virus sweeps through, the world is in lockdown mode, and it is changing the very fabric of our society which has evolved over the past hundred years. All that reeked of permanence a few weeks ago now seems mortal and fragile.
In the midst of this comes news of two disparate events that for me are linked inexorably together. In Belgium, which is reeling from the virus, a 92-year old man passes away quietly in his sleep, his end unrelated to the virus. His name is Alberto Uderzo.
On the other end of the world in Tokyo, the organisers reluctantly announce that the greatest event in world sports, the Olympics, would not take place this year. The twin events, apparently unrelated, transport me back four decades to my childhood in Calcutta.
It seemed like I had been waiting an eternity for the birthday to arrive. After all, turning ten was a very big deal. A step into adulthood as far as I was concerned. I had always been a shy boy and didn’t have many friends, just a few close ones (four decades later, that has not changed). They would all be coming home that evening.
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