The tale of a Bibliophile.

My relation with books stretches back to a long time ago when I was about 5-6 years old. Coming from a pretty typical Indian family, the focus was mainly on my studies and the only books that were readily bought were the dull textbooks which dampened any child's imagination. Reading outside of the curriculum was almost considered bizarre. Fortunately, my father had a contradictory opinion about this; but he was never around much since he was earning bread and butter the malayali way (There's a reason Dubai is like the second Kerala) So I was left with my minute, miniscule library which I think consisted of three books. One was a set of knowledge books which was gifted to my sister by a family friend, the second was a Tinkle comic book which can't really be called literature in the right sense. The third book was very dear to me, called 'The Mango tree' . So I set off with my modest possession for the extensive journey to the land of literature. Nevertheless, I had my ways and thankfully my brain didn't tire of the same old books I repeatedly read to keep the fire ignited.

     As a kid, visits to my cousin's were much looked forward to since they were accompanied by food, merriment, but most of all the prospect of getting to read his books. My indolent cousin had a gem of a book which he was obviously least appreciative of; but my eyes didn't escape this wonderful paperback he had discarded in one of his drawers- "The little Red Riding Hood" (with pictures! Oh yeah!) So this book was, I think, one of the best things that happened to me when I was a child. It opened an array of imagination, everything from her little hooded red dress, to the wolf dressing as the granny outright fascinated me. Oh and I could go on and on about how divine the frayed pages of the book smelled, since my olfactory senses sometimes still get nostalgic about them. Why I was not allowed to take the book home to call it mine, I never understood. My cousin didn't give a rat's ass about it anyway. Well, be that as it may, I'll forever be thankful to Charles Perrault, for I'm sure several kids like me loved this little masterpiece.

    In school, everybody dreaded open house, since that is when the encounter between your parents and teachers occurred which can wreck your life for days to weeks, depending upon the severity of your doings. However, I waited in anticipation of this day. Dear reader, please do not assume I was a brilliant student, it was only because it used to be one of those blessed days when the school hosted a book exhibition! The neglected exhibition acted as my bookstore, in fact the book shelf at home still adorns the books I bought from these exhibitions. They are not very choice books I'm afraid, but it acted as a kick start to my hobby.
    Books opened for me a whole new life, multiple lives to be accurate. I climbed the hill tops of Peshawar, drifted through the land of Westeros, explored Britain in the Victorian era and feasted at the Great hall of Hogwarts. Books enlightened me, took me on expeditions and made me don a hundred different cloaks. Touching a new book felt like laying my hands upon a world full of possibilities. Taking in the waft of yellowed pages was better than any perfume ever bottled. Eyes wandering through the books stacked haphazardly was like seeing magic on parchment.
    Books became a solace, a silent friend, a companion in despair and a medium of satisfaction. They made me see clearly into the nooks and corners of the world. Every book ended with an emotional turmoil followed by days of grey clouds hovering above my head. However, I gradually recovered, and plunged myself yet again into another world. Even if some ignorant people think that reading is boring, one thing I know for certain is that I would gladly spend all my life growing and faltering, living and perishing, dreaming and reasoning with my face buried inside a paperback.