I must confess. I almost left behind all the books I own, when I moved cities. Books are like people, and city odor- they belong in a place, and time. What use do they have thereafter? Especially in a small, and full Bombay house, quite unlike the many shelves that lined Gurgaon’s walls. There, there was much more room for my books.
But, I carried them still. Sent them packing in an old-brown carton, safely taped. For in it, was a little bit of me, a little bit of you, and a little bit of all things Gurgaon. Oil-stained bookmarks, and dog-eared endings, and folds in the back-covers from being taken around too many places. The books had lived a little with me.
Now, they are back where they belong. In a dusty, damp Bombay garage keeping the time you want to forget, the memories you are uncertain from.
They stay like old, and faithful friends.
I will not let them go.
But, I think I must not buy books again. I must borrow them from a public library (Although, India has none) buy them from a thrift store (Although only cheap Sidney Sheldon copies are up for grabs) And, read them for free online (Although that plays with my conscience).
I succumb and visit Flipkart again, and decide I cannot wait the 5-day waiting period on a book I really want to read.
I’m back at the corner bookstore- the smell of familiar friends, new and old books, and my brand new Jerry Pinto.
Aching to be read.