I had just turned ten and lived with my parents in an apartment, high on Malabar Hill in Mumbai, with shining marble floors and an open veranda that looked out across the windswept bay. We should have been happy there, but my mother stayed miserably in bed all day. My father left early for work and returned late to sit alone and drink Scotch. The silent war between my parents permeated the apartment. My escape was the veranda.

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