I met Ruskin Bond once. For the great lover of books that I profess to be, I guess I should have remembered the occasion and the experience vividly. But I don’t. And I don’t know why. I do have a faint remembrance though. It was a book reading session at the
Oxford book-store in
Connaught Place. Bond was probably there to release a collection of his poems and also read out a couple of them. I think the book was meant for kids much younger than me and my friends, so we didn’t buy any copy of it. But then how were we to get the great author’s autograph? So each one of us bought some or the other book to our interest and got him to sign them. I have no memory of what Bond read out that day, what he said or whether we talked to him, personally, at all. So then how did I recall this incident? Well, the book that I had purchased that day to get his autograph on recently popped out of a bag, where it had been lying forgotten, for a long time, in the company of several similar ones. As I flipped through its pages, I was extremely surprised to find it autographed by the creator of Rusty.
Just above his signature, he had written something. I think had it not been for this message, I would have conveniently forgotten about my encounter with him entirely. As I reflect on his message today, I see it emerge as a tool helping me to assess myself on a front that had always been a point of debate, inside me. “Once a reader, always a reader”, said the note.
I know a lot of people who finish books like a pack of cigarettes with a regular, not chain, smoker . A new one every few days. Howsoever I aspire to be like them, I have not been able to reach even close. Whenever I have picked up a book, I have been stuck with the same one for months at a stretch. One would imagine I always pick up books the size of War and Peace or A Suitable Boy. But, sadly enough, I am talking about much smaller works, those running into just four to five hundred pages. Initially I used to think that maybe I was just slow and should accept that fact. Then I started telling myself that the reason why others were so fast and could read so much was that they just read their stuff, while I read, grasped, reflected, strayed away and then came back to continue. A time taking process, indeed.
Several years have passed since I read my first book and, in spite, of the painfully slow pace, I have managed to read several of them by now. I think I can recall all of them, and I know it’s a shame. But, the habit has not changed. I am still stuck with one book for months together. I have also discovered my love for cinema. I have become a part of the television industry. And of course, I have also become an active netizen. That means distractions have multiplied. However, somehow, the reader within me has managed to keep his spirits high. I still go crazy when I visit a bookstore. Crazier still, when I see discounts. In an everyday conversation with a friend or acquaintance, a casual reference to the latest book he/she might be reading always makes me ask the name of the work, its author and what it’s about. I try my best to gift only books. While asking for gifts, I always ask for books. I have plenty of unread ones with me now. So many, that given my pace, by the time I have read all of them, I fear I would be nearing my retirement age.
I am on a kind of sabbatical right now. When it began, I told myself as well as others that I was going to utilise this time-off to read as much as I can. Two months have passed, I haven’t finished one book. As I complete that sentence with a grin, I feel the debate inside me would continue. I think it is my destiny to be questioning my loves time and again. However, everything said and done, the joy that I feel in recommending a book to someone makes me feel that it’s true: I do love books. It’s a strange love, but love it is. Bond was right, after all.
