An evening expedition
As I sat twiddling my thumbs, out of books, I found that the car was available and I could make a quick trip to KM to get myself something to read. I set out within a minute, and after painstaking navigation through the traffic that KM is ever afloat, I entered Faqir Chand's. Wanting to meander through the book aisles on my own as I am accustomed, the privacy of my thoughts felt a little invaded when it was suddenly asked, "What are you looking for, Ma'am?" Out came "Fiction," and I was led to the latest and the greatest. But the latest and the greatest wasn't what I had in mind. It was the tried and tested that I was looking for, something that had, mmm, journeyed through time. After looking through the shelves distractedly, pausing briefly at Vikram Seth's "Two Lives," I decided to explore other aisles (though I felt guilty doing so under said invader's nose). I could've asked, but I didn't know what to say. "Old fiction" perhaps, "NOT the latest and the greatest, please" - unlikely. I did my own looking, squeezing my way through the narrow spaces between towering bookshelves. Found nothing that pleased, and wanted nothing more than to get out and rush to the next store. Irrational instinct, but what is one to do about instinct? One must resignedly obey.
At "Bahri Sons," I was more hopeful. I can hardly remember walking out of here empty-handed. But while I found numerous books on religion, my now-more-sustained less-crazed reading quest (certainly no offense, I look for Him now in subtler places), 'old' fiction I found none. I know Bertrand Russell awaits, and Vikram Seth just couldn't get enough of my attention, but there was something else I was looking for. I was driven out, either by said instinct or by the boy who dropped the ladder on my foot (but not as you think - my subsequent glare and characteristic slowness in uttering an "It's OK" made me groan inside... I quickly made an exit).
Next stop - Full Circle. I was here just yesterday (ha ha, life does indeed come 'full circle'), and I knew there was something to be found here. The thing is, when you know, you can't possibly not find anything and prove (what you think is) your instinct wrong. I walked back and forth through the shelves, mentally issuing commands for the books to call out to me. If instinct had brought me here, and instinct had filled me with hope, the calling out had to happen.
And it did. While I was open to being pulled to any book that wished to call out to me, I had in mind Hermann Hesse in general, and Bridges of Madison County in particular. Both made sense. Hermann Hesse has taken my life by storm lately, and Bridges... was just recommended by a thoughtful reader (and when recommendations enter the picture, serendipity enters the picture, and we all know how I feel about that).
So, it did. First, with Zorba the Greek. Not a recommendation but a stumbling upon first led me to read about the book. And then to quote from it here. Serendipitously. And if I'm quoting from an unread book, it does make sense to mark it read, yes? One down, and one (possibly two?) more to go.
In a flash, my eye fell on two copies of Bridges of Madison County sitting one atop the other. No, I didn't even look at the synopsis. It was a recommendation, and one doesn't question recommendations. Welll (let me qualify that), not when instinct backs it up so fiercely. Who's to question instinct?
Instinct also said I was done. But I decided I could still look around for more. I found a book on Tagore and Kabir. Lovely! Pick? Instinct said no, they don't know how to spell 'diverse', and on the back of the book, of all places. OK, I looked morosely, as I wistfully turned the pages and saw the word 'helmsman'. Helmsman. I guessed this would've read 'manjhi' in another tongue... and 'manjhi' was so much more attractive than 'helmsman'. I wasn't going to buy Kabir in English when I was soon to be surrounded by Kabir in Hindi, was I? It made little sense, you will agree.
I handed these books over at the counter, offered a 1000 rupee note, and waited. As I waited, I found these utterly fancy tour guides waiting to be picked up, looked at, but not bought. The one on Bangalore was more tempting than the others, but temptations such as these are easily resisted, phew! I thanked the book-keeper for the paper bag, but asked him to reuse it while I placed the books in my amply spacious and newly acquired (but old, old) Turkish handbag (a hand-me-down from the sister, of course). As I stepped out with a victorious spring in step, I was hit in the face by a sudden gush of dust being blown around in the air. Could it be? Heavens, this was a dust storm!
I couldn't stop smiling as I walked the long, uncovered route to the car. Oh, a dust storm after ages! And I was being stung by my first blissful drops of summer rain! All at the same time! The dust entered my eyes and I could barely keep them open, but I smiled regardless. And those cherished lines of the song came back to me...
'cos I'm free... nothin's worryin' me!
At "Bahri Sons," I was more hopeful. I can hardly remember walking out of here empty-handed. But while I found numerous books on religion, my now-more-sustained less-crazed reading quest (certainly no offense, I look for Him now in subtler places), 'old' fiction I found none. I know Bertrand Russell awaits, and Vikram Seth just couldn't get enough of my attention, but there was something else I was looking for. I was driven out, either by said instinct or by the boy who dropped the ladder on my foot (but not as you think - my subsequent glare and characteristic slowness in uttering an "It's OK" made me groan inside... I quickly made an exit).
Next stop - Full Circle. I was here just yesterday (ha ha, life does indeed come 'full circle'), and I knew there was something to be found here. The thing is, when you know, you can't possibly not find anything and prove (what you think is) your instinct wrong. I walked back and forth through the shelves, mentally issuing commands for the books to call out to me. If instinct had brought me here, and instinct had filled me with hope, the calling out had to happen.
And it did. While I was open to being pulled to any book that wished to call out to me, I had in mind Hermann Hesse in general, and Bridges of Madison County in particular. Both made sense. Hermann Hesse has taken my life by storm lately, and Bridges... was just recommended by a thoughtful reader (and when recommendations enter the picture, serendipity enters the picture, and we all know how I feel about that).
So, it did. First, with Zorba the Greek. Not a recommendation but a stumbling upon first led me to read about the book. And then to quote from it here. Serendipitously. And if I'm quoting from an unread book, it does make sense to mark it read, yes? One down, and one (possibly two?) more to go.
In a flash, my eye fell on two copies of Bridges of Madison County sitting one atop the other. No, I didn't even look at the synopsis. It was a recommendation, and one doesn't question recommendations. Welll (let me qualify that), not when instinct backs it up so fiercely. Who's to question instinct?
Instinct also said I was done. But I decided I could still look around for more. I found a book on Tagore and Kabir. Lovely! Pick? Instinct said no, they don't know how to spell 'diverse', and on the back of the book, of all places. OK, I looked morosely, as I wistfully turned the pages and saw the word 'helmsman'. Helmsman. I guessed this would've read 'manjhi' in another tongue... and 'manjhi' was so much more attractive than 'helmsman'. I wasn't going to buy Kabir in English when I was soon to be surrounded by Kabir in Hindi, was I? It made little sense, you will agree.
I handed these books over at the counter, offered a 1000 rupee note, and waited. As I waited, I found these utterly fancy tour guides waiting to be picked up, looked at, but not bought. The one on Bangalore was more tempting than the others, but temptations such as these are easily resisted, phew! I thanked the book-keeper for the paper bag, but asked him to reuse it while I placed the books in my amply spacious and newly acquired (but old, old) Turkish handbag (a hand-me-down from the sister, of course). As I stepped out with a victorious spring in step, I was hit in the face by a sudden gush of dust being blown around in the air. Could it be? Heavens, this was a dust storm!
I couldn't stop smiling as I walked the long, uncovered route to the car. Oh, a dust storm after ages! And I was being stung by my first blissful drops of summer rain! All at the same time! The dust entered my eyes and I could barely keep them open, but I smiled regardless. And those cherished lines of the song came back to me...
'cos I'm free... nothin's worryin' me!
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