Foreword
The author, T. P. Sreenivasan, had sent me some excerpts of his lucid memoirs. In an inimitable and eminently readable style, it took me down the lanes of memory. We met for the first time in 1975 when among the group of the South Asian diplomats and the Indian Embassy officials, who received Sheil and me at the Sheremetyevo airport, was a keen youngster, T. P. ‘Sreeni’. He was accompanied by his wife, Lekha. During the two years that we spent together in the Moscow Mission, I discovered his talents and charm. As the head of chancery, he was always solicitous about our needs as we settled down in Moscow. We also got to know his four-year-old son, Sreenath ‘Kiku’—as he was then called. We were sorry to see them go from Moscow, but such ...
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