Library: a love note

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There are rows and rows of books as far as I can see. Economics, business and marketing are behind me, probably staring at my head as I type. In front of me lie shelves full of social science, ethnicity, migration and who knows what else. The librarian does or the person who walks by every now and then, arranging and rearranging books in these shelves. It’s hard to believe that this person knows the location of every book on this floor, or even the entire library. A remarkable, rather envious skill.

If a library could speak, it would have such wonderful things to say. But it waits to be read. Every now and then someone comes by with the capacity and motivation to absorb everything it has give. Otherwise the library just sits there for years, holds all that spectacular, often dark and mysterious knowledge within in itself.

Every now and then it watches a lost soul wander into its alleys and find itself by just looking at a part of one of the numerous shelves that wait to enlighten. It must feel great when some one comes back to the same shelf looking for more.

It’s a busy place, the library, bustling with students in the day time. More of them during exam time. As the night descends it becomes the solace of a few. Those who stay behind with it, because its peace embraces their lonely souls. The smell of books, and the silence of concentration inspires them to open up their minds and absorb the knowledge that drifts in its corridors.

Then there are those who have no where else to be. They find their little corner and think of it as their home. Outside they feel lost, isolated. Inside they have the company of thousands of books. Some books they look at, and some books look at the back of their head as they type their first ever love note to a new friend in a strange town.

The Exclusive Time Zone

"You live in a void, a time-zone an era that never existed. It's somewhere between today- tech-savvy, fast moving and yesterday- the time without this technology." 


Since I heard this evaluation of where I exist, I can't  help but keep playing the conversation in my head. Each time, I feel a bit more proud of it than before. Though this was supposed to be a reprimand, I can't help but take it as a compliment. I live in a exclusive time-zone. It is super-cool.

I was a child in the 80's. I knew a world without much of its advancements. A teenager in the 90's, the advancement started. I stared at them wide-eyed, and saw them enter my life so easily. I adapted I learned. An adult in the new millennium, advanced with all the mind-blowing advancements, yet yearning for the time when there was no advancement.

Putting it very-very simply. I know how to use a laptop/desktop/whatever-top, I write and send emails, check Facebook and all that jazz. Yet my emails are never what my letters used to be. Getting one, does not make me as happy as tearing open an envelope and reading a letter over and over again.

I maintain a blog, but what I write here, is not even close to what I wrote to my 'Dear diary'. Not even close.

I can type fairly well, but I can write faster. Pen and paper make the words flow. They are my magic. Writing on bits of scraps is more fulfilling than complete, saved word docs.

I read a lot online, it is never as good as reading from a book or a page. Books are beautiful. The print, the paper and the way it ruffles, that's what makes reading a pleasure. Turning pages in real has its own charm, you flow with the story, it could be a matter of life or death. Clicking next, does not do that to me.

An old book is more exciting. So many must have gone through these, now yellow, pages. They must have experienced all kinds of emotions and created mental images of the characters. When you pick up the book after years, you join this secret club. You take the same journey and you come out, feeling a little sad that it is over a bit too soon.

I am not too sure, if x number of page views give you a similar feeling. Maybe they do, and I am yet to feel them. Numbers, however are the anti-thesis of words. They are dead, cold, sometimes harsh. They tell the truth, rather they lash it out in your face.

This does not imply that I hate technology, or I am reluctant to embrace it. The reluctance comes in when I have to replace one with the other.

I don't want to. In my time zone or era, black and white co-exists with colour. Carriages and cars ply on  the same road. The writing pad and the iPad lie side-by-side. Google loads, while I rummage through a fat, dusty encyclopedia.

Okay, I am a hopeless romantic. I do wish that people talk, the way they did in Pride and Prejudice, and in my era they do. Some of you probably co-exist with me.

Hello! I think it's you, hiding behind an old, thumbed version of, lets see, a Dickens? 

POSTER BOY

There’s a twinkle in the eye,
lost in a fantastic day dream.
The lips, are trying hard,
not to reveal the smile.

A new story comes into the head,
every time she walks back from the bakery.
Hoping sometimes, praying sometimes,
that the poster in the closet comes to life.

He says the most beautiful lines,
they say someone else wrote it.
He does everything right,
they say it’s not him, he poses.

She does not believe a word they say,
frowns and does not talk again.
Walks back to her dreaming chair,
hoping to see the poster become real again.

WINTER SUN

Winter has to be my favouritest season. Monsoon is close, but winters are way to beautiful. You might not agree with me if you come from a part of the world which is always cold and laugh at me when I say I dream of seeing real snow someday. Well all I have to tell say is each one to her/his own.

The best part about winter is the sun. It's almost like half of the sun's rays take leave during winter. So, its warm and soothing. For once it's welcome. Everytime I sit and soak Vitamin D, some very distant but clear memories come to back to me.

It is almost like the sun switches on some button and I see myself in my mothers house. There is a big open courtyard there and I see myself lazing on an old armchair in the sun. This has never happened before. Maybe it has. The winter sun just gets this image in my head and I dream of the big court yard and the blue swing.

Or perhaps trapped in the concrete comforts of a so called city life, some part of me still yearns to be in a quaint, dreamy countryside. Where life is paceless and beautiful and you feel every moment that passes by. Where a nap in the winter sun does not make you lose anything, it just makes the season more beautiful.

This could just be a very romantic illusion of a city bred person, maybe all that quaintness has something disturbing in it. But isn't that the beauty of anything romantic? It rides over all the maybes and creates an illusion of its own.

So I have to make a confession that Shaw's Bluntschli made, "I suffer from an incurable romantic disposition." Blame it on the loveliness of the winter sun.