The Intimacy of Reading

Where does reading end and life-ing begin?

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Read on... 

I wonder about this process... called reading. What draws us to a book or bookshelf? What makes us open our Kindle and tap on that one particular title? Is it a recommendation, a review? The cover of the book? Or is it something else? What happens when we pause between the pages? Does time move in a strictly linear manner? Or do the moments pool up, whirl and pull us into their mad cortex? And where does it all begin? When two lovers sit side by side, their eyes glued to the same page, where does the reading happen? Is it in the pages? Or is it in their skins that tenderly coalesce?

On "Medium", a platform which I frequently visit, there is a publication called, "Books are our Superheroes". At 48, I look with distrust any title that has "super" or "power" in it. As I write this, I am reminded of this quote by Rumi,

"I choose to love you in silence for in silence I find no rejection."

When we were children, my parents would buy us pop up books-- "Russian books" as they were popularly known at that time. Every time I would open those books, I felt as though I was entering a special place-- be it a tiny village in the Tundra, a huge castle or an old worn-out mitten! Yes, a mitten. I don't remember the title now, but the mitten book was crafted like a warm, worn-out mitten and was special for several reasons. I don't remember much of the story but towards the end, the entire jungle ends up inside the mitten. There is a warm fire burning; the bunnies, bears and elephants are seated around the table passing honey and buns between them. For the longest time, I would dream of entering such a mitten.

Years later, I would suddenly remember this book. I would open my phone, go to the Amazon site and search for all titles that have "Mitten" in them. I order one book and the book arrives the very next day. But it is not "my" mitten book. This one has a thick board cover, and it is too pristine. It is about one mitten that flies into the air and how it lands into the hands of one little boy. Bah.

The mitten book came to me when I was still listening to stories, was pestering my parents to tell the same story again and again every night as though in a loop. That makes me question, "How do we meet books?"

Looking back retrospectively, I wonder whether I had been looking at the wrong places for my mitten book. Perhaps Amazon was not the right place. Had I wandered along those dusty little bookshops in old Poorna market, I would have found my little mitten book. Resting under the mighty JEE entrance exam books, it would have winked at me. And I would have blown the dust off its cover and returned home warm and rejuvenated.

A book continues to breathe through the lives of all its readers. I like to think my Mitten book is hibernating somewhere. And sometime in the future, once again our lives will interweave.

On my bed, several books lie.

A friend once asked, "How can you read so many books at a time?"

"How can you not?" I retorted back.

And then it struck me...

When it came to reading, I was not the proverbial Cheetah. I don't "power" through books. I hop, skip, leap and jump through several titles, break a nut here, break a nut there and disappear into the hollow of the tree when the sky turns dark. And I enjoy it that way.

Reading is both familiar and wild. But where lie the edges between these two worlds? Where does the city end and forest begin? Is it strictly between the pages of the book? Or does it lie outside somewhere? In the spaces we navigate day in and day out? In our identities--as parents, as sons and daughters, as lovers, as spouses? Where does the book end and where do we begin?

Where...

My cousin (let us call her Priti) and I had just stepped into our twenties. We were naive, reckless and wildly optimistic like all young people of our times. We had just completed our ICWAI inter and were full of dreams for the future. Priti wanted to have a business of her own and I wanted to have a "job". Both of us wanted to earn money--lots of it. This was in the late nineties. Priti and I belonged to middle class, conservative families in India. In the circles we moved in around at that time, dating was unheard of. Marriages were "arranged" between known families. That summer, Priti and I set out to meet a pen friend. The journey itself was a wild adventure and would form another essay. Tired and exhausted, we landed at my grandfather's place. That was when the "advertisement" caught our eye. We were in the upstairs room that belonged to my grandfather and having coffee. I don't remember much of the wording now but something about being "marketing executive" excited us greatly.

After having breakfast, Priti and I rushed to "the office". Once reaching there, things started happening at a maddening pace. Our applications were accepted, interviews conducted hurriedly, and we were told that we qualified and could start "training" that very instant. The "training" itself entailed tagging along with a couple of "seniors" who would teach us on ways to market. Priti and I were put in separate teams. And as we moved into separate rooms, the import of the words, "training" and "field work" dawned upon us.

My "team lead" was a young man not more than 2-3 years older than me. He told me to get into the bus and I followed. As the bus lurched forward, I felt sick in the pit of my stomach. I was scared for my cousin. Where was she? What was she doing at this very moment? The bus meandered through crowded roads. People got in, climbed out-- screaming infants, vegetable sellers, fish hawkers. As we moved deeper and deeper into the city, I wanted to throw up. I also wanted to get hold of Priti and rush to our grandfather's house. The stop arrived. My lead told me to get down. As we walked into a street, he started teaching me how to modulate my voice, how to make eye contact, what to do when a customer is rude, etc. Slowly, with every step, I started to breathe easier. Okay, this was no monster. He was just a youngster like me. The women who opened doors to him greeted him with an air of familiarity, asking him whether he had got the wares they had ordered from him. We continued moving from house to house. Overhead, the sun continued to blaze. Sometime at around 3PM, I realized I did not have my lunch. I was faint with hunger.

We stopped at a tea stall and had had tea with oily pakoras. My thoughts turned to Priti. Praying hard that she was safe, I continued to follow my team lead. By the time, we reached office, the evening shadows had lengthened. I was having a splitting headache and as I scanned the room for that familiar face, Priti rushed into my arms. Clutching each other's arms, and heaving a loud, collective sigh of relief, we hailed a passing auto, got in without saying a word to anyone arrived at my grandfather's place.

 We were tired and exhausted mentally and emotionally. Reaching home, we crashed.

Looking back, I now wonder...

When does the tonality of the conversations begin to change? One moment, my cousin and I were excitedly talking about the possibility of new jobs, shifting to Visakhapatnam, revamping our wardrobes and the next moment we were listening sullenly as our parents cautioned about the "safety" aspect of what the job entailed.

"Think about it...once again..."

"Of course, it is going to be your decision...what do you think...but look at it from our perspective..."

"See...you will be returning home when it is dark..."

"But of course, whatever you girls choose to do."

"The salary they are offering you is bloody peanuts!!! And they want you to travel too?"

"Think girls. Think. But we trust you to come up with a smart decision."

"Sri...you prepare lunch, and I will take care of dinner..."

"Priti...you think Grandpa will let us have this room if we move to this place?"

"Sri...what if they are right?"

"Ummm...Priti the other day we returned at 9PM"

"This city is not safe at nights..."

"No city is safe during nights."

"What if something happens to us?"

"Our parents are right."

"Yes, they are right..."

Dang

Dang.

That was when I picked up Norman Vincent Peale's "The Power of Positive Thinking" and "Iznogoud--the Grand Vizier". I don't know what made me pick up the most unlikeliest book combo that evening. I had not read Peale until that point of time.  I was new to the evil ways of Grand Vizier too. That evening as I sat with the two books, the street down below turned all silent. I was not reading from either book and was observing it all-- office goers returning home on their two wheelers, their faces tired, lunch boxes hanging from their shoulders, women stopping near the flower sellers, tucking a tiny garland into their hair, vendors packing their wares and leaving for their homes.

I don't remember when exactly I opened the book and started to read. I don't remember when exactly the words started to make sense. I don't remember when exactly my eyes began to singe, when I put aside the book and loud sobs began to rack my body. 

When you are twenty, words like "existential crisis" have not yet formed a part of your vocabulary. But in your own reckless, youthful way you experience grief and loss like no other.

To this day, I wonder what made me and Priti blindly follow those "senior" employees into the bus? And what exactly were we grieving? Was it the loss of wildness? Loss of innocence? The possibility that moving forward our "what if"s would largely be the monsters lurking in the dark. And sometimes those monsters could be real...very real? Were we grieving because in that moment of being very "practical", our futures seemed very bland to us,salt-less even? Was it the sorrow of fitting in/into? Or was it something else?

In the days that pass, I continue to read Peale. I find it easy to cry. I cry for all the "smart decisions" I would be taking as adulthood beckoned. I cry for all the possibilities that would lie submerged under invisibility. And every time I cry some more, Peal's voice emerges and wraps me in its warmth, like a warm blanket. After my cousin and I let go of the decision of being marketing executives, once again we become young girls. We go to the beach and laugh at the salt sticking to our lips. We gorge on "Masala Muri" and go to cinema halls. There we cheer loudly as our favourite hero bashes the goons. We play with our baby cousins and hold long conversations with our grandfather. And through all of this Peale walks with us. He talks, whispers and even sings. 

I return home to my parents, warm and rejuvenated. Before pushing Peale into my bookshelf, I hurriedly underline these words,

“The way to happiness: Keep your heart free from hate, your mind from worry. Live simply, expect little, give much. Fill your life with love. Scatter sunshine. Forget self, think of others. Do as you would be done by. Try this for a week and you will be surprised.”

I do not read Norman Vincent Peale after that. As the years pass, I start to look at empty positivity with the disdain of the middle aged. But now as I recall the way I crossed paths with Peale, I feel tender.

My cousin and I continue to be in touch. We are into our forties now. She is navigating through a stressful corporate job and difficult marriage while I am a solo Mom going through the complexities of setting up my own coaching business. 

"Remember how foolish we were," Priti says to me one evening when we are strolling on my terrace, "We followed those team leads into the bus. Thank god those young men were decent."

"We were not foolish Priti," I say, "We were open and trusting of the world."

"That's true," Priti nods.

"And that day, the world did not let us down," I continue, "I wonder what would have happened if we rebelled our elders that day."

"We would have been rich, "Priti says. We chuckle. Our loneliness dissipates.

This essay would remain incomplete without the mention of "Grand Vizier". Grand Vizier came to once again when everything in my life seemed to be going South-- I was "jobless" once fine morning, there was a financial crisis hovering over my head and I would be perennially tired and exhausted in my body. My Uncle brought the book to me. No he did not get the book to cheer me up because he was unaware of what was happening. He brought it because he remembered how much I had laughed out reading that book in my younger days. My boys and I read the book sitting on the couch. We laughed till tears streamed out of our eyes. We read and read till the pages came loose from the spine. The Grand Vizier with his vile, scheming ways still lies somewhere in the dusty corners of our bookshelf. 

Once in a while, I come across an article that mentions how one particular book changed the author's life. I do not for a moment doubt the sincerity of the author's intent when I read such articles. That said I wonder what else gets tended to every time we turn the pages of the book? What else continues? What else churns? What else moves? Because it is in the else-ness of reading that life happens, life unfolds. To me, my Mitten book is not very different from the heavy texts that I read today.  

(C): Sridevi Datta