India, Sept. 25 -- The other day, while rummaging through my bookshelves, I came across a battered copy of the collected plays of William Congreve. I hadn't read the Restoration playwright since my days studying English literature in Loreto College Calcutta a million years ago. But I fixed myself a cup of coffee and settled down to re-read one of my favourite plays, The Way Of The World.

And before I knew it, I had gone down the rabbit hole of time, and was once again that gawky little teenager sitting in a classroom, discovering worlds that I never knew existed. I could feel that same summer sun warming my back; I could hear the muttered sighs of my classmates who didn't have a yen for plays; and I could hear the sonorous tones of my pr...