Growing up, my favourite place in the house was my father's magazine rack. A state of the art teak wood trolley which was used to serve food to my parents, was later refurbished in the living room. Neatly laden were issues of GQ from all over the world, with memorabilia from his world travels.
After he read those magazines, earmarking the pieces he liked, I used to sit by the easy chair with coffee in one hand, throw on my lap and his magazines for company.
My earliest memories waking up were my dad sitting with a cup of tea, Hindi classical music playing the background and the smell of the runway freshly served in the living room from his magazines. He's always been more fashionable than my mother, and I have taken it on from him.
Ever since I can remember, the happiest times of my life were the first few days of the month when one by one all our subscription magazines would come home.
My father and I would divide it equally, and read each one, discussing what's the upcoming trend, over some white tea.
On peculiar morning I remember skipping work, walking into my room with a Bazaar in hand.
The words take me back to the season that was. The lights are up, testosterone levels high and the words are hushed, as the showstopper walks the ramp, all breaths exasperate and applause fills the room like silence in the night.
I'm sitting in my room when the words take over, jumble and climb on me, tracing me back to my toes, embracing the acclivity in my stature, reaching my brain and making my lips curve into a full smile.
I think back to the first magazine I read as a child, from my father's collection, a stately, classic array of words attached with equally eclectic imagery dancing in symphony, with the editor's words topping it all off.
I was ecstatic, having read and cherished the symphony ever since.
When I close the magazine and take a sip of the now lukewarm white tea, I think back to the conversation in my head, 'print is dead' and smile.