My longest-lasting love affair has been with books. I doubt the passion will fade any time soon.
As a child, books represented a wondrous world to me. They opened the doors to mystery and imagination. Talking birds, wise elephants, beautiful princesses, brave and adventurous knights, audacious scientists and smart, tenacious detectives. They all beckoned me into an iridescent universe and held my hand as I ventured through dark woods and bright valleys, avoided long serpents and murderous villains, and searched for elusive clues and demure damsels.
I have some charming childhood memories, but none compares in charm or luminosity with my recollection of listening, ensconced in a soft gray-green blanket in mother’s bed, to her dulcet voice reading magical little folk tales of lordly lions and foxy foxes, pompous priests and kind villagers. Or, a little later, my aunt reading heart-rending tales of a hunchback atop an ancient cathedral or a lover braving the guillotine for his unattainable beloved, while my brother and I lounged, raptured, on an aging sofa.
As a child, books represented a wondrous world to me. They opened the doors to mystery and imagination. Talking birds, wise elephants, beautiful princesses, brave and adventurous knights, audacious scientists and smart, tenacious detectives. They all beckoned me into an iridescent universe and held my hand as I ventured through dark woods and bright valleys, avoided long serpents and murderous villains, and searched for elusive clues and demure damsels.
I have some charming childhood memories, but none compares in charm or luminosity with my recollection of listening, ensconced in a soft gray-green blanket in mother’s bed, to her dulcet voice reading magical little folk tales of lordly lions and foxy foxes, pompous priests and kind villagers. Or, a little later, my aunt reading heart-rending tales of a hunchback atop an ancient cathedral or a lover braving the guillotine for his unattainable beloved, while my brother and I lounged, raptured, on an aging sofa.
Books! Those were the things to have. The passports to unknown galaxies, to adventures and romances, to gaudy, flamboyant spaces with swordsmen, sleuths and swashbucklers. I could freely imagine myself out of a prosaic quotidian existence and forge a solo living, like Robinson Crusoe, on a desert island and next day, like Gulliver, cavort with Lilliputs on an exotic, unknown land. I craved for books, and wolfed one every day, sometimes two on a holiday.
Hence, an unending search for books. My mother recalls jocularly my disheartened remark at the end of a birthday party, “I got only five books as gifts!” Shirts, shoes or sweets did not rank high in my estimation; all I wanted were books and more books.
Father was friendly with the local doctor, and Dr. Bose encouraged us to consult him for any problem. Once I noticed a luscious detective novel on his desk and quickly initiated a conversation on the subject, hoping to borrow it. He ended it quickly, “I never read such books. They are my wife’s obsession.”
In a remarkably lucky break, his wife returned from marketing five minutes later and dropped in to pick up her book, on the way to their apartment a flight of stairs up. The doctor handed her the book and said, “This young man was asking about the book.” As she gave me a quizzical look, I said, “I love detective novels.”
“Really?” she said, “I am crazy about detective fiction. I have a large collection.”
My eyebrows must have lifted in admiration, for she added, “You want to see?”
In the apartment upstairs, the shelves were bulging with books from every author I knew. I went reverentially touching them, opening some, and simply gazing in awe.
“You have a fantastic collection,” I said in genuine appreciation.
Along came the magic words I was longing to hear. “You can borrow some, if you want to.”
That day, and many days after that, I steadfastly borrowed books from her, two or three at a time. In fact, I kept developing coughs, cold and other complaints at regular intervals just to be able to visit the doctor and then make an excuse to visit his wife upstairs. I returned invariably with a handful of books.
Hence, an unending search for books. My mother recalls jocularly my disheartened remark at the end of a birthday party, “I got only five books as gifts!” Shirts, shoes or sweets did not rank high in my estimation; all I wanted were books and more books.
Father was friendly with the local doctor, and Dr. Bose encouraged us to consult him for any problem. Once I noticed a luscious detective novel on his desk and quickly initiated a conversation on the subject, hoping to borrow it. He ended it quickly, “I never read such books. They are my wife’s obsession.”
In a remarkably lucky break, his wife returned from marketing five minutes later and dropped in to pick up her book, on the way to their apartment a flight of stairs up. The doctor handed her the book and said, “This young man was asking about the book.” As she gave me a quizzical look, I said, “I love detective novels.”
“Really?” she said, “I am crazy about detective fiction. I have a large collection.”
My eyebrows must have lifted in admiration, for she added, “You want to see?”
In the apartment upstairs, the shelves were bulging with books from every author I knew. I went reverentially touching them, opening some, and simply gazing in awe.
“You have a fantastic collection,” I said in genuine appreciation.
Along came the magic words I was longing to hear. “You can borrow some, if you want to.”
That day, and many days after that, I steadfastly borrowed books from her, two or three at a time. In fact, I kept developing coughs, cold and other complaints at regular intervals just to be able to visit the doctor and then make an excuse to visit his wife upstairs. I returned invariably with a handful of books.
That wasn’t the only trick in my repertoire. I took obliging, bibliophobe friends to the American Library and British Council and made them members, just so that I could use multiple library cards to borrow a bagful of books. It was a pleasure to be able to touch books and see their content, before even borrowing them. In schools and colleges I was only allowed to peek at books, securely confined in closed cupboards.
Eventually, my diligent pal, Prasanta (who was later to prove his diligence, with a massive and well-regarded biography) and I joined to create a circulating library, with donations from friends and sympathizers, while some acquaintances joined in with a modest membership fee. That library was a life-saver for me: I met book lovers, reading enthusiasts and people who liked talking about stories, poems and ideas.
Eventually, my diligent pal, Prasanta (who was later to prove his diligence, with a massive and well-regarded biography) and I joined to create a circulating library, with donations from friends and sympathizers, while some acquaintances joined in with a modest membership fee. That library was a life-saver for me: I met book lovers, reading enthusiasts and people who liked talking about stories, poems and ideas.
All this came to mind as I explored the Book Festival recently in Kolkata a pleasant January afternoon. The multiple gates had no numbers, but tawdry, oversize pictures of a political leader; the help desk could not offer helpful directions, only hand over maps; the stalls were stiflingly warm and some got overcrowded; the corridors, filled with munching and slurping clientele, often looked like a passageway to a foodfest. Yet I was happy, looking at books, hearing about books, touching books, reading a small poem here, two provocative paragraphs there, simply sharing others’ enthusiasm for books known and unknown. I looked at eager faces, young and old, leafing through books, admiring covers and content, and standing patiently in lines, to enter a stall or listen in the auditorium to a favored author.
Doomsayers lament people aren’t reading anymore, newspapers look like cheap tabloids, good magazines wilt and wither. I am still heartened by an afternoon’s memory of eager eyes, plentiful books, earnest talk and sheer, breathless enthusiasm.
Perhaps I am not the only one with an irrational, enduring affair.
Doomsayers lament people aren’t reading anymore, newspapers look like cheap tabloids, good magazines wilt and wither. I am still heartened by an afternoon’s memory of eager eyes, plentiful books, earnest talk and sheer, breathless enthusiasm.
Perhaps I am not the only one with an irrational, enduring affair.
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