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A young fella from the printer’s shop was showing me his new digital proof last week. All the letters clean as railway track, perfect symmetry. I looked at his screen, then at a hand-painted *xyz* I did for a chai stall in the old market thirty years ago—the 'x' with that little chamka at the tail, the 'z' leaning slightly because my brush slipped on a hot afternoon. He asked, "Sir, why not just use a font?" Saku, I told him, a font never had to chase a chicken out of its own paint pot.
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