My first encounter with The Little Prince was on a summer holiday to Calcutta. I was 11 years old (I think; I wasn’t into keeping track then) and bored to death in an adult world. What kept me going on those lazy summer afternoons were breaking expensive china, chatting with the household help sitting on a mat, contemplating a change of name (which I discussed fervantly with our maidservant), scaring people out of their skins with fake spiders, and discovering The Little Prince. The latter entirely by accident. My cousin had (and does still) a voracious collection of books. I had to crane my neck to see the books on the highest shelf. To me, the sheer size of the ceiling to floor bookshelves were awe-inspiring. I loved reading but at 11 found some of the brown tomes boring. That is until I stumbled onto The Little Prince. Here was a book that spoke to me – later to the child in me – and still does. I don’t remember much about it except that I loved the story and remembered the watercolor illustrations. And even though I didn’t own a copy of the fable till yesterady, everytime anyone anywhere mentioned The Little Prince, a tiny bulb of recognition would go off in my head. To me, The Little Prince was the Little Prince of a faraway summer when I was alone in an adult universe and he came to give me some company.