You know there is something cumbersome, yet comforting about an old chair sitting tight in a cosy corner of your drawing room. While a young fresh-blood swanky recliner might add that extra glam and sheen to your well done-up room, that arrogant old chair, with its creaks and growls still make the finish line. You know why? Because this old Missus knows her value. The value of familiarity that comes with age, the value of knowing the anatomy of another missus who is the happy occupant of this throne. The upholstery is now faded, but still proud of its rich history, the springs beneath the worn-out cushion has its telltale arthritis symptoms of creaking at the odd joints, yet retains its glory till the end of time. The sun streams in from the window behind, while the green of the garden lends its warmth.
All in all, the above is the story of our corner sofa, defying her age, sitting pretty and regal right next to the fireplace, taking up the proud place of being in the best possible corner of our cosy drawing room. Often to add some sheen to the wrinkled skin, we adorn her with a throw in contrast, lending the old bones a dash of colour. And it is on this regal aged throne, that I find my comfort corner. To have a favourite snack, to watch a favourite show or to read a favourite novel. I even tug along my laptop here, taking a respite from the monotony of my work desk.
Well, when it comes to reading especially, your chosen spot must be spot-on! Our corner sofa caught me early on, inviting me to its firm cushion, lending me a spot of quiet with the gentle breeze and chirping of birds reaching my ears. Right across the room from this vintage corner is our bookshelf, stacked with old and new books. So it is on this cranky old sofa that I perch, legs curled up, often Cookie on my lap (one of our two pet babies) and open the pages of a novel.
After we began living in Nairobi, I have been introduced to African writers and oh do I love them! From Kolkata, I have often carried back on several trips, a wide assortment of newly purchased books. But what I treasure most are my old books. Cover worn out, pages turned yellow, some corners curled up and in few books, those precious remarks I had once written in pencil while in school maybe!
Do you too smell a book first before reading? Oh well, this habit of mine I still retain. How I love the smell of especially old books! They smell of an era gone by, of times we can never reclaim, of childhood homes and forged friendships, of a time when the rustle of old pages mattered more than swiping on gadgets.
Old books open a Pandora’s box of memories for me. I still recall my Dadu’s collection of old P.G. Wodehouse, a good many of them stacked neatly by Ma in our Kolkata home’s elaborate bookshelf. My first P.G.Wodehouse was ‘Right Ho Jeeves’, I distinctly remember, from my Dadu’s collection. Once introduced to the world of Berty, Jeeves, Aunt Dahlia, Aunt Agatha and all else, there was no turning back. Wodehouse continued to be one of my favourite authors in life. To this day, I do a shuffling of these books between Kolkata and Nairobi. A favourite of my parent’s collections was Erle Stanley Gardner’s Perry Mason. My first exposure to courtroom scenes was therefore from a rather early age, perhaps Class VI, from the worn out pages of vintage books. We lost Dadu when I was only four years old. Running my fingers over the pages he once held, I wondered if he had paused at the same lines and maybe felt the same excitement as I did. Some feelings cannot be voiced, they simply seep into you. While the courtroom drama of Perry Mason or the humour of Wodehouse drew me in, these books gave me something far more personal.
Arthus Hailey’s Final Diagnosis, Hotel and Strong Medicine were again my parents’ buy. Hotel hooked me on. After Hotel, there was no looking back. I lapped up every other novel by Hailey within a couple of years. Erik Segal came into my life in ClassVI, I remember. And yes you guessed right, Love Story it was. We had a tight group of friends in school and all of us shed copious amount of tears after reading Love Story! Next in line was Oliver’s Story, followed by Class, Doctors and the rest. Doctors, to me is still the best alongside Love Story. Ah that very first line from Doctors…”Barney Livingstone was the first person in Brooklyn to see Laura Castelleno naked”! And this I am writing from memory after more than three decades of reading the book! Like one can never forget one’s name, neither can a die hard Erik Segal fan forget this opening line of Doctors. Our growing up years was reigned by Sidney Sheldon and defying Ma’s admonitions, Harold Robins. A little later in school life came Wilbur Smith, my first introduction to Africa, bravery in its very raw form, a prince having to fight a lion in front of the entire kingdom to establish his eligibility to be king. Imagine the raw beauty of such valour! Wilbur Smith was introduced to me again by Baba, with his favourite book Sunbird. Till date, Sunbird remains one of my favourites. Even today, when I laugh at a Wodehouse novel or marvel at a Wilbur Smith mystique adventure, I find that single thread tying the me of today to the me of school days. The same emotions play in me even when I read the same novel after decades. Does that mean the bond between that girl and this woman is for forever? Perhaps 😊
My parents had taken me to watch ‘Gone with the Wind’ when I was in ClassVIII. How I marvelled at Scarlet O’ Hara and the way she fought all odds with immense grit and determination. It was much later in life, more than a decade later, that we went through a hugely rough and acutely difficult phase in life…one that called for courage, hope and endless determination. It was here that Ma gave me the book ‘Gone with the Wind’ to read. Old book, weathered pages. That was my first read and Margaret Mitchell carved out a special place in my heart for that fiesty, invincible and resilient Scarlet O’Hara. Plunged into utmost ruin by the American Civil War, she retained her unwavering belief and made a promise to herself, “God is my witness, I shall never be hungry again”. Her obstinate and indomitable spirit, her unwavering belief and her unique perspective, “I won’t think of it now. I’ll think of it tomorrow.” helped her tide over all situations too painful, giving her the ammunition to survive the day at hand. I was then only twenty six and all through my long misery of fighting a tough battle, Scarlet O’Hara was one of my real inspirations, coming to life from the pages of an old novel.
Many of these old treasures I often bring to my Nairobi home from Kolkata. Do you relate with this feeling? That even touching an old book is like rekindling an old romance, a flame in school life that had long died but suddenly jerked its pretty head in the chaos of reality? It’s that feeling with old books. The first inside page would always have a line or two written, with a signature. So many of these had been gifted to me by Ma or Baba, some from a close Kaku perhaps, few from friends, some were won in school, many I had gifed myself. And always, always, there would be a date mentioned below. One look at the date and I time travel back to say ClassVIII, I recall well which parts I loved most, which parts I had re-read. It’s precious to often recall why I was gifted a particular book by Ma or Baba, I had scored rather well in that final exam perhaps. Oh and yes, some books had us remember page numbers which we would come back to later, even after we were done reading the book!
This crazy love story with books is an inheritance, both my parents and even my grandparents (Dadu and Didun) being avid readers. While new books lure us all with curiosity, leafing through old books is to relive an old film in black and white, one where we first found love, first felt the sensation of youth, first learnt to rebel or first discovered the true calling of adventure. And in this walking down memory lane, oft disconnected from our modern life, I find peace, I find happiness and I often smile remembering few trivia of the past. Old books are a bridge. Between the ‘me of today’ and the ‘me of school days’.
So while I relax on my old throne, perched comfortably against the morning light gently washing over my book and me, I pause. And this truth nudges me softly. The ‘woman of today’ can so easily reach out and almost touch the tender ‘schoolgirl of yesteryears’. And somewhere in the midst of my two personas, as diverse and different as day is from night, we merge and become one over the pages of an old old book.
