Suddenly last evening I felt like I had grown wings.I had walked out of a book shop with some modest shopping in my hands.I had never loved myself as much before. My act was somehow empowering, enhancing, exciting and such similar superlatives that put me up on a pedestal so high, that even I could not reach me.The whole feeling was oddly romantic, and supremely pleasurable.
I cannot claim to be a voracious reader. But I do justice enough to call reading an interest, and have come so far as to have nutured a palate for such writing that is simple enough to implant in me a bit of the story itself.
I live in a collective of my own worlds, built from silly tales of speaking animals and impressive characters from my favourite stories. I live in the descriptive smells of cauldrons boiling with soup and the verbose narrations of the market place of suburban mumbai.I can hear the sounds when I read - be that Noddy's toy car or the brutal beating cracked down on a wife. My chest explodes with breath, as the words unravel before my eyes.
I see every scene as a page out of a writer's book. As if it was her creation and her painting. As if it took birth in text, in slanted cursive writing on yellowing parchment, that was tied into a bundle with some coir rope and abandoned into a corner to gather sweet smelling dust.And when I see it, murky at first and vivdly later,it all looks so unreal. So evasive.Yet enticing enough to beckon me to live in it. And so I do. Live each scene from my life like a chapter from a story that I did not pen. I feel philosophical in one sense. As if I have just conjured up my own theory of life. And then it runs away- my theory- skimpers away like a rabbit, closes itself like touch-me-not even before I reach it.
2 days ago