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My Cousin Rachel – Daphne du Maurier

It was Krishna’s wedding. Krishna, my closest pal during childhood; my first best friend (first best friend !! does that sound strange ? well ! at different times in life I had different best friends. Guys with whom I had nothing to hide and who hid nothing from me. My brothers.) All day I was wondering what to give . He generally was fond of things carved out of glass. The only doubt was whether he still liked showpieces . well , I thought I’d go to the shop and decide. Brigades was on the way. I decided to put at stop at Archies there to choose a gift. As always there was no place to park. Went downwards along Church Street looking for a space. Drove , drove and drove .. finally found a place to park. Turned around to see something that I would always love to see. Blossoms. Something was going on. Was it being renovated ? No , this was the newly furnished ground floor and was still being filled with books. I went to the first floor – straight to the du Maurier section. Eyes sought ‘My cousin Rachel’ . There it was – a greenish book with a lady draped in a green shawl looking directly at me. Behind her was a house , a villa. The villa was a bit far off. Between the villa and her one could see a lot of greenery. Trees all around and a well maintained lawn.

I turned the book and started with what was written on the back cover (I hate reading whatever is written in the back cover. I feel it somehow gives away the author, somehow cheats me , somehow doesn’t give me the right to let the events unwind in my mind since I start expecting things to happen. My best readings have come from books of which I hadn’t read an introduction , of which I knew nothing , expected nothing. I don’t know how many of you like to see movie trailers or would enjoy the movie after you have been told the story.) Anyway , the crime was committed. I read it in a single go ..

“Ambrose married Rachel and never returned home. His letters to his cousin hinted that he was being poisoned and when Philip arrived in Italy, Ambrose was dead…”

I’ll put a stop to Gorky and start with du Maurier. Shouldn’t one go after ones heart’s desire than fame ?

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