Today in the cool breeze of the November morning I took out my bookshelf and cleaned it. The wooden book rack was purchased in a leading store - with an outlet in Delhi. In some ways the book rack is also part of my story, returning as we did from Delhi to Goa almost a decade ago. I wanted the same book rack in our place in Goa.
So, once in a while it is fitting to dust off the dust that sits in between the pages of the books and let them breathe on my balcony in the sun. As I clean the wooden slats, I sit myself down to reacquaint myself with my books - dear friends from over the years. If only to kick the WhatsApp dependency that sets in on holidays.
Each book speaks to a different part of me, and sometimes evokes a different memory. There are the short stories of Marquez gifted to me in Delhi. There is also the book by Uday - my teacher - on Kerala. Reading a page of his erudite analysis makes him present all the more.
I am drawn to the poems of Stephen Spender in a hardback I picked up from rejects at a British Council sale. Ditto for the Chinese poems of Vikram Seth. I dip into the Latin American stories but save it for another day. The memoirs of a jazz musician I save for another day.
Then I look at some of my books of verse, my poems in journals, and my research published in anthologies. It gives me a context about who I am. And what I need to do now in my life. I am waiting for my third book of poems on Delhi to don my shelves. And a collection of my weekend pieces in a weekender - until it folded up - would not be a bad idea. Ever since I ceased contributing my weekly musings I have felt an absence I still need to fill. Which is why I am writing this blog post.
There are only so many books you can fill on a book rack. There is an embargo here. Only one bookrack is permitted in the bedroom as it is believed to spread to much dust. There are some books and some lines that do not enchant me the same way they did earlier. At least one - the stories of Katherine Ann Porter - has pages with smudges of brown owing to the recycled paper used.
My son comes in. He wants to play the Christmas carol 'Mary's Boychild.' Last year we were practising our carols, leading a group of children. I decide to explain to him the chords of the guitar. C-F-G. F is too difficult but I try to teach it to him on 2 strings only.
Sometime back he wanted to read The Book of Chocolate Saints by Jeet Thayil, but I said no. How could a book with a title like that not be for children, he reasoned. I had picked up the book in Kharghar where I wanted to read it at our place during our sojourn. It remains to be read fully. Looking at our place on phone through the kindness of aunty Ann this morning made me feel I was sitting in the balcony there. Everywhere people are working to help you.
Somehow books give your life a certain continuity. Whether in one place or another you have to live to finish reading it. Re-encountering the books at various stages in my life gives me a sense of purpose, an awareness of a destiny that only I can fulfil. It lifts me above the humdrum reality of everyday cares and brings purpose to my being. I remember a book I would like to read, touch and feel and be washed in its vibrant colours. I turn to my shelf in the other room . . . but realize I had lent it out. I bring some more books containing my research papers and add them to the rack.
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Pic of illustration 'The Library' by Mariusz Stawarski from ebookfriendly(dot)com
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