BENGALURU: I am a Tsundoku! This phenomenon of acquiring reading material, and piling them up at home without reading any of them, is not merely a Japanese thing. My house in Bengaluru is a ‘textbook’ example. Today, thousands of books sit as exhibits across book shelves and in the attic, untouched, calling me out to read a word or two. But when, where and how do I begin? I was never in this despair before, when I used to call my books friends. But today, my busy self looks at my library as an alien world.
Flashback a few years! After every hard day at school and college, tucked into bed post supper at home, I would call a night only after I had read some pages from my choicest book. If it were a comic, I used to devour an entire edition in one swoop, while in the case of a novel or nonfiction educating work, at least 20 pages would lull me to sleep. “Books for bedtime, and reading for rest” was the daily driver.
In kindergarten, I won the first prize for narrating a Panchatantra tale titled – The Jackal and the War Drum, word-to-word, after reading it and amusing myself with the speech bubbles and pictures, from an Amar Chitra Katha. In my childish innocence, I believed I had unlocked the power of reading, for it could win me prizes. But gradually getting on to more books, and developing tastes for specialised subjects and genres, revealed that books are a universe unto themselves, with the power to widen our horizon and deepen our imagination.
The journey began with the splash of colours and memorable scenes from the Puranas and Indian way of life in ACK, Tinkle, Chandamama, and Chacha Chaudhary. The popular European fairy tales by Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen, and Aesop’s Fables quickly followed, tugging along Enid Blyton, and the gripping lives of Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew. To glance through the windows of the world and beyond, the evergreen Childcraft, World Book and Britannica were go-to addresses. My childhood was spent in sufficient study and story.
Day turned to night, night to day, and the years passed, kindling newer interests. Inquisitiveness heightened the thirst for more knowledge and experience. In the comfort of home, on the bus, or between classes, books loyally attended to my time on hand. In this steady read-up, I cherished one book after another, with the rush to have more. At every book fair and literature festival, captivated by the presence of authors in flesh and blood, offering invaluable peeks into their genius, more books joined the pile. When authors become favourites, they enter your life. They motivate and guide, educate and entertain. In times of boredom or just a bad day, books remind us that they are friends to stay, and attentive reading calms the mind. Whenever I read a page and looked up, the text would play out vividly in front of my eyes. Such was the joy with my books close to my chest.
Overtime, I amassed thousands of books – Stephen King, Robin Cook, Michael Crichton, RK Narayan, Ashwin Sanghi, Tintin, Asterix et al, and many more on contemporary non-fiction themes. I also inherited classic works. However, as the book load increased, my time in the reading room gradually eroded. Blame it on work and family priorities, or plain laziness and a cluttered mind, or worse still too much screentime – I was deserting my books. The commitment to read was there, but the exercise felt like a chore.
From a time when reading was a constant companion, tackling my troubles for me, and helping me build perspective, I had hit a point where I began to procrastinate on the once must activity. This had to change, and I decided to
re-discover my reader self. I began by looking into comics, for some quick and fun reading, to begin feeling a sense of accomplishment, before moving to one or two pages at a time, from some heavy-duty writings. I made it a point to read at least a little chapter before sleep, whatever the time. And you realise, one chapter continues to several chapters, and you have finished the book in no time. The author is back in your life. And yet there are scores of books waiting to be touched, standing as relics from a timeless era, with every page decked as an ancient inscription with all that mold.
An integral accomplishment of our highly-evolved brains was the invention of language, and what followed – the written word and its reading. Reading keeps the mind young and active, and spurs imagination beyond unfathomable realms. While reading broadens your reach, that reach culminates within yourself, for it makes you a better person. I have re-embarked on the journey of a bibliophile, and launched myself towards my book universe, one page at a time and a story for a lifetime. Books never age!
(The writer’s views are his own)