A good book

I have not been myself this week. My mind has been sucked into the pages of an ‘unputdownable’ book.

This week, I live my normal life like an automaton. My brain, my attention and my senses have all been hijacked by the complex plot, and the gripping action.

I cook, and I think about what’s going to happen next. I feel as if I am floating in the real world and my identity exists only in the world inhabited by the characters in the book. This is the only reality.

Any small break, and I am nose-deep in the book. I am amazed at the power that words can have over me. Words that, when combined just right, narrate a powerful story. Words that grip me, make me laugh, make me cry and make my heart thud with the excitement of what is going to happen next!

And when the book ends, I am sure I will have difficulty coming back to the real world, where work and school and chores beckon. It will be an arduous task to leave the characters behind, but there are some that occupy permanent residence in my mind. They will probably join some of the other memorable characters, who already live there. People whom I know and love from those lovely books I have read, people who have influenced me and who have opened my mind to new thought.

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Reading a book is an indescribable pleasure. Whenever I finish a great book, I yearn to write one too. This is what reading does to me. There is a  ‘wannabe writer’ in every bookworm’s head. I am no exception.

I dream of dialogues between imaginary characters and look at interesting people, who will fit into the book that I will eventually write. 

A bookworm’s journey

I remember some of the first books I read as a child. I must have been six or seven, when I got two books of the pop-up variety – one was Cinderella and the other was Snow White & the Seven Dwarfs.

Each time I turned a page, magical things happened. I still remember a page from the Cinderella book, which showed Cinderella sitting by the fireplace, looking pensive. On that page there was a broom that popped out, and three small kitchen jars that popped out.

I must have read those books a zillion times. Then started the love for comics, devouring every neatly drawn frame, enjoying the dialogues, more magic.

And then, suddenly my sister thrust an Enid Blyton into my hand and said, “Read this.”

It was the first book of the Secret Seven series. I was initially reluctant to read a book that had no pictures. But my sister  sold it to me!

I had taken an important step in my reading journey. Now, I could read words and imagine the scenes in my mind. This was a whole new experience. I gobbled up the entire collection of Blyton books.

‘Twas time to graduate to a new author, but again there was reluctance to move from my comfort zone. My sister was my role model, soon I was trying new books and new authors and new genres.

The years have flown by but my love affair with books continues to this very day. I love their titles, their smell, the many genres, the plots, the stories.

What’s your bookworm journey like? Would love to know.

Bookworm silence….

Last night, both my children were reading, and when I asked them to go to bed, they pleaded repeatedly to be allowed more time to finish their books.

Being a bookworm myself, I could not deny them that pleasure, so motherhood took a backseat, and the book lover in me enjoyed their happiness at this unexpected treat.

When I was growing up, we lived in a modest house, in a joint family. At night, my sisters, grandma, aunt and I shared one room.

It was a cozy room, filled with comfy quilts, soft mattresses, my aunt’s knitting paraphernalia, my grandma’s prayer books and our entire collection of books. 

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Our Dad was very particular that the lights had to be switched off by 10.30 pm, unless we had exams (this, when we were older).  As any bookworm would agree, the joys of reading late into the night, without interruption, are indescribable.

Our grandma was usually asked to ensure that we followed the rules. But once my Dad went into his room, my sister and I would stuff pillows below the door, so that light wouldn’t escape from under. We would then read our books till late into the night, especially during our summer vacation. Our grandma’s pleas usually fell on deaf ears and we bribed her with lots of hugs, kisses and granddaughterly love; and it worked everytime.

She probably realized the joys of reading too, and wanted us to enjoy it. And right through the year, when the bright moon shone through the windows, or monsoon winds howled past,  or soft frost fell all around the countryside, we read on, falling in love with so many, many books.

I come back to the now. I pull out the book I’m currently reading, and savour this pleasurable bookworm silence.

From a bookworm

I am a bookworm. If I could, I would spend all my time with books, yellowed or frayed, dog-eared or shiny and new, from the library or from the bookstore.

I could snuggle inside a book all day and feel the words wrap around me. My bookshelf is an old-cane one, that has borne the weight of millions of words that have been lovingly chiseled into beautiful books.

Each time I read a great book, I pause and wonder about the journey of words from the author’s mind to the printed word – scratched or deleted, replaced or enhanced! The fountain of ideas never seems to dry up. Amazing books are being conceived and written even at this moment.

The pleasure of reading reigns supreme in my life – reading a good book, by the window, on my easy chair, with a fresh mug of coffee. Idyllic! Rain lashing outside would be an added bonus.

Like caffeine-shots, I need my book-shots every night. My books are scattered around our home. Their covers, spines and smells invigorate me.

My love affair with books started when I was in grade three. Every Sunday, my sister and I would accompany our dad to the vegetable market. From there, we would drop in at my dad’s brother’s house. Enroute to my uncle’s home, there was a book shop. My dad would buy us a comic each. We would finish reading one comic each in our uncle’s house. Once we got back home, we would swap our books and read the other’s. What joy!

When a library opened close to where we lived, my sister and I were there at opening time during our holidays, waiting to get in and borrow books. We would then run home to read.

We read late into the night, with our granny’s voice chiding us to sleep. To hide the fact that we were reading late into the night from our parents, we would put a thick towel under the door, to prevent light from escaping through the crack at the bottom.

There is always a book that travels with me in my handbag. I unabashedly bend my head to look at book titles that people are reading on the train or in the airport.

I check online for lists like ‘100 books to read before you die’, just to be sure I don’t miss the good ones.

Books continue to shape my life in so many many ways. If there is one legacy I want to leave behind for my children, it would be my books. My happiest moments are those, when I see my children finish a great book and look up with that blissful expression- an expression that only other bookworms would understand.

Books, books everywhere but not enough time to read.