A Real Bookshop

While studying for my Masters degree in English Literature, I was forced to go scrounging through half a dozen bookshops in this city (courtesy IGNOU and the near-impossibility of finding those texts).

And so, yesterday I stepped into a real book shop after maybe 15 years.  It was a forgotten but much cherished world which brought back a strong dose of sepia tinted memories.

The rows of books, lined up neatly on the shelves according to subject- and books spilling onto the floor in piles- and some on twirling stands- and a few in the glass display case- were enough to transport me to my own school days. 

Minoo, Dinshaw & Co. was the preferred bookstore for our school. Located centrally in Hazratganj, it was a long, long store, extending well into different sections and a store-room (where the prized best books were kept- the ones no one read except perhaps a few of my friends and me). I still remember the face of the two cashiers- the ones who probably owned the shop- the ones who created neat labelled bundles of texts and exercise books according to the class- and the ones who knew where each edition of any possible book was kept. 

I loved that shop. They also sold a few stationery items and primarily books. The smell which engulfed you as soon as you stepped inside- the perfume of knowledge, combined with a generous helping of geography (so many authors across the world under one roof), the old-worldness of history... it was, to put it succinctly- awesome.

Now I have an iPad and a flipkart to buy me books. The dank scent of those unread books- mixed with the minty new smell- has been replaced by a flat screen showing me at least fifty options and prompting me to buy now. 

And I was a trifle sad, that in the end, I had to purchase my texts through flipkart. 

Lifelong Affliction!

Last night, little R was most uncomfortable - kept waking up every couple of hours - which was odd since she's been a very disciplined baby since she was six months old and sleeps right through the night. We should've guessed. I passed on my cold to her and what started as a little runny dot soon developed into a little continuous river. It's been her third brush with cold in the nineteen months of her existence (she favours an upset tummy more - like her mum!) so naturally she's irritated.

However, the point of this post is- that despite sleeping just an hour in the early morning and nursing a  cold, sore throat (so bad that my entire back hurts when I cough) myself, I got the energy to run R through her morning milk, breakfast, bath, lunch and subsequent nap with play- without feeling out of sorts. The exact feeling I had when she was a month old and nurse every couple of hours around the clock and stay awake till 4 am. 

Guess this sleeplessness is a lifelong affliction! 

And then there are some...

- Whose role is just to provide for the family, be an ideal for listening and implementing strange advice (which may be outdated but who cares, as far as advice is concerned only two things work- it's freely available and impervious of time) and generally not open their mouths to all forms of injustice.

- The world thrives on hypocrisy. It is too frail to accept truth and as long as one lies, all are happy.

- Does it take too much for a kind word or a small gesture to an 'outsider' who has been part of your family for ten years now?

- Daughters in law will remain just that. Tied and gagged by the law and never replace daughters.

- Your mother knows you best. Even when you haven't spoken/ told her that you're suffering from fever and neglect, an SMS asking if all is well will mysteriously appear in your phone. The umbilical cord never gets cut.

- Sisters are the best listeners.

The permanence of Now

When I was a couple of years younger, I had long term vision and a single minded objective. Once that goal was reached, I find myself often wondering why I am so fixated on the concept of the permanence of Now. Everything assumes gigantic proportions in the Now and it's difficult for me to think that this problematic now will ease itself off in some time. 

I do, of course, still have long term vision and immediate goals but sometimes I'm pulled down by this Now.

What do I do?

Picking up the prosody again!

For me, the English language has never been just that. 

It's been a friend, a lover, a daughter and a mother. 

A friend to dry my tears of self pity, when I pour those out as poetry. 

A lover- since the time I was about six years old and wrote my first poem about an imaginary dog, the language encases me in it's sophisticated velvet shell, spilling out in the choicest words (yes, sometimes people had to check a dictionary to see what I meant) which make me so proud as they leave my lips. 

A daughter- as I carefully tend to my darling collection of books- dusting and blowing off those fine cobwebs which cover those well loved titles like some filigreed jewellery. 

A mother- guidebooks- how to live books- The Secret- who I would turn to for help in dark times.

And now, after a series of qualifications in Advertising, Sales, Multimedia, Business Administration culminating in a PG diploma in Communication from the country's finest school, I've decided to take the plunge into the wordy ocean of a Master's degree in English Literature. 

Needless to add, I'm loving each page of each text, especially Poetry which is my personal favourite! 

'... I dreamt of Manderley again.'

I first read Daphne dú Maurier's Rebecca (originally published in 1939) when I was in the seventh standard, egged on by my grandmum, who firmly believed that educating a girl in the English Classics was an experience in itself. At that time, I could little grasp the finer nuances and just thought of it as another ghost story. I re-read it in standard twelve and appreciated the language, the descriptions and promptly fell in love with Manderley. Post that, I must've read it at least 5 more times- each time being romanced by the suave Max deWinter and modelling my own knight after him...

Yesterday I chanced upon the 1997 television adaptation of the book and by far- it was the best adaptation I've ever seen. It brought alive the whole book. I loved Charles Dance as Max deWinter again and hated Diana Riggs as Mrs Danvers.

The place, the people- Mrs Van Hopper (Faye Dunaway in a brilliant tailormade performance as the eccentric society lady) Frith/ Crawley/ Beatrice- even Favell- came as waves of sweet remembrance- so well cast and so well played. 

It was a treat, indeed!

Time is a newborn baby

Yes.

Today I was sorting out R's old clothes- newborn ones. And I realised just how tiny she was, when she was born. She was the perfect weight- 2.995 kg - but oh so delicate. One of the earliest pics of Day 1 show a blue swaddled bald doll with piercing dark eyes, looking straight into me as I hold her and talk to her. That was really something. Much as I may enjoy R's growing up now, looking back at those couple of days when we were formally introduced to each other in the real world- were the best of my life. There was so much excitement and tension!

A newborn baby gallops through weeks, months and years.

Time is a newborn baby.