On the boundaries of my childhood territory was this ancient ruined temple. Silent coconut palms stood over fallen granite columns and abandoned moss covered stone idols. The temple tank was but a small hole in the ground, overgrown with weeds and laden with lily flowers during season. People seldom passed through the temple premises. One heard of spirits and sprites. Even the lone pujari seemed frightened of it—he used to come early in the morning and leave not soon after. Now, if I had but a tenth of the imagination of the Japanese animation master Hayao Miyazaki, I would’ve grown up to write wonderfully enchanting magical tales about the place, full of woodland spirits and pagan Gods and friendly otherworldly creatures. But alas, I’m but an ignorant hack who hadn’t even heard of the master until yesterday—and then only because my nephew set up a Miyazaki marathon to take my mind off my pesky flu. The first five minutes were enough for me to get completely addicted to the ...