Books are my life. I am that person. The one who sits up
till 3 a.m., turning pages compulsively, sometimes crying at an epiphany a
character had. The one whose eyes light up when she sees the words ‘book’ and ‘sale’
together. The one who will crane her neck and rotate around the pole on the
metro, trying to see what book you’re reading. The kind of person who will just
be glad that you read books (anything, even E.L. James) in this age of
smartphones and WhatsApp. The one who takes out three library memberships and
then cheerfully juggles her way through the tyranny of due dates. The one who
promises the love of her life that she will not buy any more books for a couple
of months (“Really now, where will we
keep these?”) and then painfully ignores the twinge of guilt and goes crazy at
a library clearance sale because she knows these books will not be available at
these prices later. The one who goes for a walk around CP with its brands and
sales and glitter and come back triumphantly to her room clutching a tattered
copy of ‘Miss Marjoribanks’ for Rs. 120 (quite a bargain). For a long, long
time I felt the need to apologize for being this person. Not anymore. I am very
happy among my books, thank you.
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