New Yorker 2007 – 2012 | Cambridge, UK
She wrote an advertisement for a think-tank: 'wanted: thinking people'; I felt someone was calling me. During the opening lecture she was the only one daring to ask a question. I looked at her; she turned around and saw me looking. Her smile was cute, mischievous, with a grey tooth. We were too clever to be fooled by small talk. On our first date she entered my tiny house with a pink jumper and mud on her boots. 'So what should I do?' she asked. Sarcastically, I suggested my new silk carpet, so she did, without a second thought. That was her, never apologetic, with lots of energy and wit. We did not leave the house for three days. I think the entire city knew her, she did everything from establishing an NGO to editing a magazine, she knew PMs and ministers. A few months after we met she joined as a desk helper in a major news corporation - soon afterwards she was leading their team as a chief producer covering a war while I was fighting it. I got an offer from a university abroad and she agreed to join. When we left the country, she cried a lot. It was like seeing a newborn leaving its mother's womb. She looked lost and it was only me. She introduced me to the world. In New York she showed me the museums, the restaurants and the New Yorker. I, on the other hand, taught her how to hug, but it was like catching a flame, you can only pretend it is yours. Together we flourished and with her I realized my passion for intellect and the absolute need for it. I'm reading the New Yorker now. The thought that somewhere in Delhi, Nairobi or London we share one more incredible piece of information makes me smile. I sent the last issue we shared.