I have not known Keki Daruwalla closely as many in the poetry orbit have known him for decades. Growing up in Malabar, the numerous trips by the green city bus to the Calicut Public Library (its current renovated form in the heart of the city by Manachira and SM Street being the greatest contribution by Amitabh Kant, who was the then District Collector of Calicut) and the bumpy rides in those KSRTC buses to Calicut University Library which allowed six books on a card generously bestowed by a cousin who was then a PhD Scholar at Calicut University was nothing short of a windfall for a school girl. Reading Jayanta Mahapatra, Nissim Ezekiel and Keki Daruwalla was akin to reading Gods. Receiving rejection letters signed by Nissim Ezekiel from PEN Magazine thrilled me to the roots with delirium with all the symptoms of cholera as though an unrequited love, while convincing me I had no hope of being loved by the Gods. Not that I still nurse the hope of being loved by the Gods. The discourses published in Civil Lines narrating correspondence between Arvind Krishna Mehrotra and senior poets gave me the surreal thrill of virtual game as though I was witnessing the war of titans.