Childhood fevers have a place of reverence in my memory ledger. They have created my template of good values and bad. They have taught me how to be cared for, and how to care – in that order. They have given my delirium a script and a meaning, place and purpose. These were not long bouts of debilitating illness. Just a few days of high pitched flaming fevers, sometimes from the burning sun, sometimes from prancing about in untimely rain; at other times, for unexplained reasons. In April 1979, a Hindu-Muslim riot broke out in the small town of Jamshedpur in eastern India, built around India’s first iron and steel industry. I was born and raised here. As all communal riots do, the reason was small and simple based on a sinister plan. It was a popular Hindu festival on that day; devotees were to gather in a procession which would go across the city carrying religious flags to celebrate.
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