I am a reader and I am thankful for it.
I should thank my father for fanning my love of books and reading. He himself was an ardent reader of books. For him, reading was a way to improve his knowledge of the language, English. He grew up in the post British era, when most of the good government jobs required a strong grasp of English and for him reading books was a way to improve upon whatever he learnt at school.
I think he also loves the language for itself. He would underline passages in his books, there were some he had memorized. He was a fan of Marie Correlli and P.G. Wodehouse. I read Vendetta, God’s good man, The sorrows of Satan, and many more, all his copies bought at second hand shops or borrowed from friends.
When I was growing up, he would cut out cartoons from the Sunday newspaper and we would stick them in notebooks to get the complete story. I learnt English reading Phantom, Denise the Menace, Charlie Brown and many more.
My prize for doing good in class would be two Amar Chitra comics. These were comics relaying the hindu mythological stories of Ramayan and Mahabharata, the Indian revolutionaries and freedom fighters, the Sikh gurus, and personalities from the Bhakti movement.
By middle school I had caught the reading bug. We could check out only one book at a time from the school library, so a few of us formed a group to exchange and effectively read three or four books in a week. My father bought my first Enid Blyton book. I wonder how he came to know about these authors in the pre internet times.
I read the Famous Five series, the Mallory towers series, Secret Seven, St. Clare’s, the Naughtiest girl books and the Faraway tree series. These were followed by Nancy Drew and Alfred Hitchcock and the Three Investigators.
One of my happy memories is sitting in bed with a plate laden with jam or condensed milk sandwiches, reading one of these books. My sister and I would get this opportunity only when our parents went to a party, which was rare, maybe every few months. They would leave the house-I cannot forget my mother’s worried face, leaving her two precious daughters, alone, at home-with strict orders not to open the door to anyone. As soon as they left we would be in the kitchen rustling up our plates, excited about the upcoming adventures.
How can I forget the books from Russia? We got the Sputnik magazine, Russian fairy tales, Short stories by Leo Tolstoy, Doctor Zhivago, Anna Karenina. Imagine sitting in a hot, humid place reading about people wearing furs and getting frostbite.
There was a period of time I read every Mills and Boon I could lay my hands on. Yes, they are fluffy romance novels but they talked about the exotic places, Spain and Crete, New York and London, places I could only dream about. I used to think the arguments the hero and heroine got into were so inane, honestly I would just walk away in those situations, but the settings were so nice.
I read all the magazines we got, mainly the lifestyle ones with recipes, relationship queries and answers, homemade cures for simple health issues and beauty advice, which my mom favored, but also the Bollywood ones with spicy gossip about the latest No. 1 hero or heroine, which I liked. In those days, not so long ago, the newspaper man would carry a bunch of magazines which we could rent for a day. He was like a library on a bicycle, home delivering the latest issues.
Buying a book was a big thing for me. It was a treasure, not to be taken lightly. Each purchase was thought through. Mostly books were borrowed, sometimes not returned. I remember a family only because they ‘forgot’ to return my books. I don’t remember the books, not the boys names, but I remember the anger I felt when they moved away without returning my books.
Apart from the school library, I don’t think I came across any other library in my town. Once I got into college and the career track, my reading was limited to the school/college books.
And then I came to America with my husband and my two year old daughter. We lived in Queens, New York, right in front of the hospital where my husband had found a job. Those were the days I spent on the ninth floor of the apartment complex with my daughter, watching day time cartoons and afternoon Oprah. I don’t remember how I came across the library because it was a mile from our apartment and we had no car at the time.
I walked that mile at least 2-3 times a week. I loved that library. Imagine my excitement when the librarian told me I could check out 21 books at a time. Twenty one! All free! for three weeks! I don’t think they saw anyone so deliriously happy to hear that information. Each visit, my daughter would get 10 books and I would get 11. I read the Runner’s World, Self, Health, Danielle Steele, Sidney Sheldon, so many others. Gradually I enrolled my daughter into the mommy and me classes where we learnt ‘the wheels on the bus go round and round’
We moved to Troy, MI and promptly joined the library. We were patrons of that library for eight years and both my daughters have fond memories of having brownies at the cafe sitting next to the aquarium with the colorful fish.
This was the time when Harry Potter came into our lives. We, as in my older daughter and I, read each book within the first few days of getting it. When the midnight release started in Borders, we attended those, the last couple of times she went with her friends all dressed up. I give full credit to the Harry Potter series for enhancing the love of reading my daughter already had. Even my younger daughter, who just cannot seem to read for pleasure nowadays, finished the whole series.
And of course we read the Twilight series. And Percy Jackson. Diary of a Wimpy kid. Dork Diaries. I have yet to read the Lord of the Rings though.
I have more time to read these days. I have joined three libraries, I get books through Overdrive-the online source which I read on my iPad. I have become a bit more discerning-I don’t have to finish a book if it hasn’t interested me by the first 50 pages. So there are a lot of incomplete books on my list.
Not so long ago, my brother-a close cousin, had commented that reading could be a form of escapism. What in my reality was I running away from?
I thought long and hard about this-for a whole five minutes-and went back to my book. He might know better, he is a psychiatrist after all. But I know how I feel, it’s my mind and my life after all.
I enjoy reading. Yes, research has shown all sorts of benefits to the brain-people who read fiction are creative, people who read thrillers are imaginative. I read because for me nothing can beat the feeling of reading a story, what happened to the characters in this story. I like reading about places, the history and the geography of the world. I like reading about food, and philosophy-Buddhism and Stoicism. I read about relationships and cultures.
I don’t analyze the books I read. I should be able to write a review for each one of them. At this time however, I am in intake mode. There is no output, maybe in the future.
So yes, I am so thankful for books. I am thankful for those who sat down to write them, and those who made them so easily available to the world. I am thankful for the libraries, and the bookstores. I am thankful for the physical ability to read and the time to enjoy them.
Maureen Corrigan puts it best for me –” It’s not that I don’t like people. It’s just that when I’m in the company of others-even my nearest and dearest-there comes a moment when I’d rather be reading a book.”
“Rainy days should be spent at home with a cup of tea and a good book.”–Bill Watterson