3 Review(s)

My cousin Hira Lal Seth became my icon. He was 33, to my 13, in Lahore before the Partition, not just because he had written a couple of books, one on Nehru, the Red Star of the East, another on a Mexican, Viva Zapata, a militant. He was wise, lunatic wise, very fair, tall, athletic, spoke in whispers, lovely voice, kind of lullaby,like Kay Sarah Sarah. He hated his father, tycoon Roshan Seth, cruel wife beater, first wife Rani, Hira’s mom, my dad’s young fragile sister, died of TB and physical violence.