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.
Image courtesy – en.wikipedia.org
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.