Confessions of a bibliophile and a lesson learnt for life
An intricate web of fiction and the magical world of fantasy enticed me ever since childhood. The realms of the library, row upon row of neatly stacked books enticed me. I grew up on bedtime stories rather than lullabies.
No sooner would I buy textbooks for the new session than I would lap up the stories – English, Hindi. I read Ladybird series, Enid Blyton from the school library, Panchatantra, Nandan, Champak and even comics. Soon I switched over to Famous Five and Nancy Drew. During the summer vacations, I laid my hands on my Ma’s magazines and Papa’s personal collection, too. We were given books as prizes and even as gifts and they formed our little collection. I bought a few from the book fair.
The borrowing and lending phase was initiated during adolescence. Friends from forces background introduced new avenues – Mills & Boon, Barbara Cartland, Daniel Steel, Sydney Sheldon, Harold Robbins et al. Modus operandi – carry the book clandestinely in the school satchel, exchange, read surreptitiously foregoing afternoon siesta (200/250 pages in a couple of hours) and return it the next day. A quaint little shop near English Book Depot lent a book for a paltry sum. It was fun travelling all the way for a book and then returning with it after reading.
Age brought maturity. My reading underwent a magnum metamorphosis and I fell voraciously for the literary classics. A significant milestone, at this juncture my avocation and vocation merged. The hitherto staple, old, dusty dog-eared public books lost their spell over me and I started investing in my personal collection. During my postgraduation, I bought almost all prescribed texts and the suggested reading. For PhD, I chose to work on the fiction of Amitav Ghosh and Vikram Chandra. I acquired as many books as I could. My guide, Prof Sharma, is a wizard and an avid collector, too. He magnanimously shared his treasure and made valuable inputs to my collection. Many a times, he would refer to a book vividly describing its size, cover jacket with colour, to the shelf where it could be found in the library! Veritable treasure troves, out of print editions, we got them photocopied and bound. My husband joined our gang and would often outsmart us with his resourcefulness in procuring a text.
At present, I have a vast collection, my bookshelf boasts of books of myriad shapes precariously stacked. I happily show my collection to inquisitive acquaintances and readily share with unknown prospective researchers but I seldom part even with a single page. I have learnt my life lesson, albeit the hard way: A book lent is a book lost. In simple words, your book is borrowed never to be returned. Persistent reminder means rude replies and severed relations. Books returned are marked and many a times bearing testimony of the borrower’s gastronomical preferences, leaving a repulsive residue.
The pandemic provided an opportunity to catch up on my reading and spend time amid the books. I explored contemporary options of e-books but somehow the warmth, the physical connect is missing. I would rather hold my book.
THE HITHERTO STAPLE, OLD, DUSTY DOG-EARED PUBLIC BOOKS LOST THEIR SPELL OVER ME AND I STARTED INVESTING IN MY PERSONAL COLLECTION. DURING MY POST-GRADUATION, I BOUGHT ALMOST ALL PRESCRIBED TEXTS AND THE SUGGESTED READING
The writer is associate professor, department of English, Hindu Girls College, Jagadhri