Oh, my beloved bookshelves.
When you come home, spend a few minutes looking at my shelves, taking in the titles of my books (some faded, some squeaky-new), you will know all that you want to know about me.
You will know that I love brand-new books. And that when I am feeling sad, I go to a bookstore, any bookstore. The mere act of walking into a Crossword or a Bahrison’s is so deeply, incredibly calming. Bookstores, that way, are equivalent to places of worship. For me, that serenity, that acceptance, cannot be found anywhere else (except maybe in my own room). Looking at racks and racks of books—mystery, biography, classics, chick lit, historical fiction, romance, self-help, thrillers, drama, cheap one-time airplane reads—is like an all-you-can-eat buffet. The most irresistible kind.
These books will tell you of how I have evolved, because books cannot be erased. They will tell you that as a giddy teenager, I was a Meg Cabot fan, and that I once owned a Chetan Bhagat book before I became more selective about the literature I devoured. That I still have some books that I would never publicly mention enjoying. But bookshelves don’t lie. It’s an honesty that a Kindle can never speak of.
Open these books, and you will be privy to my thoughts. You will see little stars and smiley faces, exclamation marks and circled question marks as well as some epiphanies doodled in the margins. Faded tear-stains will be evidence that I cried while reading some, and you’ll find pages that have had bookmarks in them for a really long time.
The bookmarks are stories in themselves. You will see the quirky, wonderful one that one of my best friends gifted me, for my 22nd birthday. The quotes that I turned into page-markers. Bright pink and green Post-Its. Scraps of giftwrapping paper. Boarding passes, and faded (but precious) Mumbai-local train tickets. Like the remnants of my time spent on them (with the wind in my hair and earphones plugged in).
I like taking my books on vacation. These books often become conversation starters, and their familiar covers are all I need to unravel the innumerable fragments of conversations that I’ve had with friends, relatives, and acquaintances.
Some books hold hints to my most cherished moments, too. My precious 10-year-old copy of “Tuesdays with Morrie“, entire paragraphs of which I have committed to memory. I remember reading it for the first time as part of a summer project when I was in Class IX, and sniffling over every page. How, right from the first page, that book became an inseparable part of me. And even to this day, it is one of the first books that I recommend, in a heartbeat, to anyone. How the sheer loveliness of “The Collected Works of A.J. Fikry” made my eyes fill and spill over with tears, while I was curled up, in foetal position, in a small, lonely hostel room. These books have seen me through everything, and you will find my stories coalescing with the author’s narrative. It is an effortless coming-together of the personal and the universal.
Only if you promise not to do any damage, I will let you borrow these books. And for me, that would be like sharing a little of my soul. I will warn you not to scribble. But I will let you leave little pieces of your heart, for me, in a book, when you return it. And, years later, if you have forgotten about the book, I will remind you to return it because there is a paragraph in that book that I want to look for. The book will reconnect us; it will make the once-lost familiar again.
While looking for these paragraphs, as I turn the pages, I will relive my time with the books, perhaps stopping to read some of my favourite parts (even though I may have them memorised). Granted, it is not as efficient as your Kindle’s search. But bliss cannot always be rushed; moment by moment, it has to be savoured.
So, the next time you are home, stop by my bookshelves. Run your eyes over them. There are many, many stories.
On my shelves are timeless narratives of reassurance, comfort, love, kinship, warmth, kindness, generosity. The brightness of my books may not be adjustable, but they can be held. Hugged. And, efficiency and convenience aside, that means more to me than any Kindle ever will.