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I grew up on the cusp of a chillum and rock music in bell bottoms and a floral shirt. India then was in the throes of change. The seventies were a great time for music, reefers, Marx and Sartre. Like me, many from my generation lived in a psychedelic world of acid rock and Hendrix. Some fell by the wayside, dead, others crawled out of the cauldron when the party was over to finish college and get married and have children. Memories of those years were washed away by the surging waters of the monsoon. All I carried was the debris of a lost inheritance, or so I thought, till I encountered Marcus Robbin in a restaurant overlooking the Arabian Sea. The ensuing conversation unhinged the sluice gates and let loose a flood of memories, which overwhelmed me and prompted this interview with Marcus.