Books never meant much to me as a child. The only ones I ever opened
were my school books and a few colouring books. The shelves in my home had
everything, from memoirs to magazines, from fiction to history, with the added
glamour of the much celebrated Bengali and English classics and thick hardbound
dictionaries, which I dared not carry let alone read. Some of them belonged to
my parents, mostly to my father, an avid reader, while the rest belonged to my
grandparents, who could finish entire volumes in days even in their 60s. But,
neither the bookish glamour nor my family's collective obsession with books
could lure me beyond the bounds of my school. It took something other than
inspiration and great library visuals to get me into reading. It took a sense
of injured pride, envy and competition. It took the fear of missing out and the
fear of feeling left out. And, finally, it took some genuine respect for
knowledge and learning and, thus, some honest and conscious effort on my part
to get myself to eventually start reading.
But, why pride? Why envy? Are they not the worst of sins? They cause
the fall of men from grace and nobility. They lead to wars and blind people to
each other’s’ genius. They turn sisters into strangers and friends into foes.
Then how could they lure the mind of an innocent child? The answer lies in her
childhood as well.
I was not the brightest student in my class. I was severely immature
and detached from the greater reality as compared to other fellow students.
Though my world was simple enough with just the school books, I would not take
even them seriously. Naturally, good grades could not be expected. My parents
tried inculcating the habit of reading in me to the best of their abilities.
They would compare my degraded state to the academic brilliance of my
classmates or of my cousin sister, who was a class topper and a bookworm. They
would try and inspire me by listing down the ways in which reading would
improve my grades and overall merit as a student. They would take me to book
fairs and buy children's collections or, even better, recollect the names of
their friends whose children did nothing but read all day and all night. But
none of it produced lasting results. The constant upbraiding would motivate me
into minutes-long reading ventures but never beyond that. I needed more. The
rest of the ingredients were missing. Envy was there, so was my injured pride.
I could not bear to get compared anymore, that too with my friends and blood
relatives. And if that meant I had to be mean and competitive, let that be so.
I did not care a hoot for knowledge. I just had to be their equal, if not better.
But jealousy can only take you so far. I never enjoyed a single thing I read. I
would pick up a book, flip through a few pages, get tired, and go back to
watching television, much to my family's dismay. The book could have the
biggest letters or the most pictures, yet, it could chain me for a few minutes
at most. The words would confuse me too. As my real purpose was never to learn
but to be apparently studious, I never bothered myself with their meanings. My
vocabulary and language remained as broken as ever.
But, times changed and so did I. The remaining ingredients finally
presented themselves. It was just another day at school. My friends and I were
hanging out at lunch break, giggling over celebrity crushes, school heartthrobs
and the latest heartbreaks. The conversation was proceeding as usual when
suddenly one of my friends started talking about some book written by some
famous Indian author and filmmaker. Apparently, it was so interesting that it
took seconds for my other friends to switch to the new topic. They started
talking about the characters, the author, the historical and geographical
references, the talent and techniques of writing and their personal reading
schedules. But, the conversation did not stay there for long. One author led to
another. More books came to the fore and so did more opinions. What was once an
immature childish talk was now a full-blown intellectual conversation, of which
I was not a part of, at least not as a conversationalist. I was merely the awed
and amazed audience who, for the first time in her life, was experiencing
something she was completely unaccustomed to. Until that moment, I had been an
important part of all useless discussions. But now, when it came to something
substantial, I could only watch and hear. Because I had nothing to say, nothing
to understand. While everyone treated themselves to delectable stories at the
book restaurant, I stood there drooling and regretting. The fear of feeling
left out yet again dawned on me as remorse and guilt gnawed at my heart,
reminding me of every wrong decision I ever made that kept me seperated from
the vast and glorious world of knowledge and creative power. It was a major
turning point in my life. And it was the beginning of a new chapter as well.
The first thing I did after returning home that day was force myself to read a
book. It was the humble “Grandmother's Bag of Stories” by Sudha Murty. The
stories were simple and easy to grasp. But, most important of all, they were
enjoyable. The simple yet delightful tales of royals and of animals, of
merchants and of villagers, which delivered amusement with a touch of morality,
were like being introduced to a new dish which was delicious and healthy at the
same time. I remember finishing the entire collection in a matter of a few
hours. It was not a big volume, so, maybe, compared to my reading frequency
now, it was not a big achievement. But, to a girl who had just restarted her
reading journey, it was the first milestone and it meant the world to her. It
was the book that initiated me into the literary adventure. Other children of
my age had already completed the entire Harry Potter series, which I would
eventually fall in love with in the near future, but I was not affected in the
slightest as the last two ingredients had taken me beyond envy and
superficiality. My fears made me pick up the book but it was the realization
that wisdom alone could bring substantiality to one's life and that joyful
learning was indeed possible, that instilled in me respect for knowledge and
inspired me to read the book and continue with it till the very end.
To this day I am grateful that I made the decision to read. I have
read multiple books from multiple genres by now. There are some I would sell my
soul to read for the first time again and there are some I would not care to
reread. But what is important is that every book added something new to my
world, real or imaginary. Every book had something to teach, good or bad. And
every book had a new pathway to open up within. So, if you think of reading a
book, do it. You may not understand every word or sentence at first but still
give it a go. I promise it will be worth it in the end.
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