Returning from a class this morning, I stop at the library with A. We check out a lazy weekend pile and then the fun starts. I have to coax him out as he has started reading, shockingly, on a couch inside the library (how apt). There're couple of errands and he continues to read walking to and inside CVS as I grab the salt (like this is his personal Dandi march of liberation). Mad at me for stopping again, he keeps at it inside the dry cleaners:) My initial amusement has turned to surprise and then praying hope. We're back home and he's still reading as I type this. There's going to be mindless ball kicking and endless Temple run for sure but dear A, you made someone really really happy this weekend!
I am very vain about my book collection back home. Usha Sanjay and I had even lovingly cataloged it at one point. I returned with couple of old favorites from vacation this time. Picking up ‘Goa: a daughter’s story’, can’t help think that re-reading a book is like meeting an old friend. The familiarity as I turn the pages is oddly comforting. Some of the pages are smudged like silly spats one could never quite smooth out. Then there are the forgotten bookmarks, which remind of play locations [society water tank for table tennis and car parking area for cricket] where time has stood still. There are story details that jump out as if qualities you never saw in the person before. One never judged the book by its cover. And one can never be done cover to cover, always leaving the possibility to meet again and know more. Life is too short to repeat but aren’t we better for it, as for an old friend?
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