Give Me This Day My Daily Book

I don’t generally care much for translated works, but this translation of Gulzar’s poem by Pavan Varma (whose original book, Being Indian, I enjoyed very much) touched a chord. The poem is entitled Books and here’s the first verse:

They peer from beyond
Glasses of locked cupboards,
They stare longingly
For months we do not meet
The evenings once spent in their company
Now pass at the computer screen.
They are so restless now, these books-
They have taken to walking in their sleep
They stare longingly

I hope, very much, for all book lovers, that this verse is completely untrue. Tragically for me, it is a cruelly accurate description of my current relationship with my most favourite things in the world. The last novel I read was Sea of Poppies two months ago. That has to be a record (albeit infamous) - the last time I had such a long, bookless period is before I became literate! I know that reading is a very integral component of many people’s lives, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s my identity card. It defines who I am…it’s the activity that until recently, took precedence over all others- much to the exasperation of relatives at family functions where I’d always be safely hidden in a corner with a book; much to the despair of my father who has tried, in vain, to explain the physiologically harmful effects of reading and eating simultaneously; much to the frustration of my sister who has had to endure countless agonizing moments banging away at locked bathroom doors…

That impostor, the internet, is partly culpable for this unnatural estrangement. It has usurped even those last ten, precious minutes before sleep that were always reserved for my latest book. Now they’re spent obsessively checking my e mail. (I have got to cure myself of this habit- it’s invariably a fruitless exercise, anyway!) I suppose that I also don’t have the time to let books consume me the way they used to- it was always a very demanding relationship- a case of ‘all or nothing’-and now I cannot afford to submit to their exacting demands with my former alacrity. Or else (and I know that what follow are ridiculous, but frightening theories, nevertheless), I’ve simply fallen out of love with books. Maybe I’ve exhausted my quota. Maybe there’s only so much love for books that can go around and my passion is being sucked up by my sister, who has begun reading increasingly voraciously (a possibility which always seemed as remote as the Tinkle digests being short listed for the Booker).

The more rational explanations probably are (a) I am losing my attention span as I advance in years and (b) I am making all the wrong choices/am being recommended all the lousier books. Whatever the reason, I am determined to end this literary drought immediately. Mercifully, I am unable to log into Gmail and a leather-bound Victor Hugo is giving me a most accusing and peremptory frown!

P.S. I shall put up the original Hindi poem when I have the time and patience to figure out how that particular application works on Blogger.

P.S.2. Is it technically correct to use ‘post script’ on a blog?