I Read a Book in Three Days

There have been times in my adolescent years when I avoided all my commitment towards books and got lost in the world of books (the former being school books). Novels occupied more space on my study table than textbooks. Back then, a personal phone was a privilege my parents had deliberately deprived me of. I hated them then for being so inconsiderate as everybody else in my circle already owned a personal cell. But when I look back today, that was perhaps the best deprivation I've ever had. Since I had no phone to engross myself in the virtual world of subtle posts with thoughtful captions, books were my only escape from reality. I read stories and stories read me. That was one happy period of my life. 

And even if I present today's reality quite often, I feel like I don't say it enough that I miss the feeling of imagining characters doing things instead of just watching them do things on Netflix. Now, I'm a binge watcher and hence possess less creativity (not a general remark, just my sad tale), but whenever those rare days of sporadic energy to read a novel or a story present themselves, I do get a sweet taste of nostalgia on my lips when I smile at the characters' joy and grimace at their plight. 

There is this famous writing magazine called The Bombay Review. I had applied for an internship at Bombay Review back in January. Since then, all my hopes are stuck at that teeny tiny possibility of being lucky enough to be selected for the position. I feel this is the upliftment and motivation that my CV and life need right now to find my way back into the creative world of writing. There are just 5 positions and 2 of them are reserved for members of the LGBTQ community, but it's not wrong to hope, right!? EFLU was a far shot but God was kind enough to grant me that. So if He thinks I'm deserving enough and need this gig now (more than some of the other applicants) then I'm sure he'll select me. If not, maybe there was somebody better and more deserving, and guess what, there always is! 

So while attending one of their recent paid writing workshops for short story writers, an author and her famous Pulitzer Prize Winner Book came up in the discussion. I instantly ordered the book. It's called The Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri. When I ordered the book on Amazon, I knew that I was investing 330 bucks to satisfy my vanity, on a paperback that will adorn my desk for a few days, accumulate dust and ultimately go upstairs into my trunk containing other books that have had similar fates. Anyway, the book arrived and I was unoccupied with any writing assignment from my freelancing gig and not in the mood to study (although I had quite a lot to study). It was one of those days when I was trying to immune myself to my boyfriend's ignorance. Every once in a while, the guy makes me feel like I'm as important as trash in his life (not that I don't do the same to him, I think it's more of a process that ensures continued love). Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that this detestable phase of having an identity crisis in my five-year-old relationship became a reason I tried to stare less at my phone in anticipation of his texts or calls. I'll leave the rant of lack of love in my life for another day but that evening, I started reading. 

The book contained nine short stories of very ordinary people doing very ordinary things but Lahiri's narration made all the difference! It was as if I was there in the picture as if I was Bibi Halder with an incurable disease or the wife who birthed a dead child in Chapter 1. I was Mrs. Sen with her problems with driving and I was Mrs. Das with an unhappy marriage and the deep dark secret of raising an illegitimate child. I was Twinkle with her childlike spirit and I was the sexy and tall Miranda that Dev had an extramarital affair with! I was all of these characters, living their life and finding resemblance with my own in the lines and images in my head. It felt amazing, this feeling of belonging somewhere without having to acknowledge anyone or anything. I missed this feeling for these past four years that I've been dispassionate about reading. 

I know it will be hard to find this kind of energy again, to go back to books by keeping aside the phone. I'm so addicted to scrolling through my social media feed and checking out clothes online that nothing else seems to satisfy me. There is a void, a self created void that is oddly comforting. It pinches and yet feels warm. Everyday is a struggle to keep away from the this miraculous device developed by man, that solves as well as creates all his problems. 

However, I want to preserve this contentment I feel at this moment. This joy of having finished a book like old times and smiling through the pages where every word that the author has painstakingly put forth paints a vivid picture for lost, demotivated and unhappy readers like me. I feel triumphant.