We always leave ourselves behind. If not all of it, definitely some parts. It's not that that bit was messy, but mostly because something better or worse demanded more attention. In the end, it boils down to the power of the dramatic.
Admittedly, reading - for the fun of it, that is, is one of those less dramatic, quiet parts of our lives that we flit in and out of. Till a few years back, this used to bother me a bit. After all, reading is what makes us; that, and our childhood. And what am I, if not an avid reader? Turns out, I'm just fine.
I may not have created world records in books consumed, but I haven't turned to dust either! Rather, I'm here, a slightly newer version of me, that bit different (because let's accept it, the old world is - perhaps, fortunately - no more) and an appetite built over the last three months of somehow being very worried and very relaxed at the same time.
Mind, it wasn't easy, plugging back in. And again, it took me some time to realise that my attention span has outgrown me, which was abysmally short, to begin with anyway! But I'm getting there now, week by week. Here's how.
Reruns
Rereading is comforting. I find it validating. Above all, rereading - even in the space of months - is basically, watching oneself grow. Our times have been anything but calm, and with it, the fabric of our own being is changing colours too. I went back to my Harry Potters and Satyajit Rays and Alistair MacLeans. This time round, I felt a twinge of sadness for the Mandrakes that were harvested for curing the petrified victims at Hogwarts; I read, with some discomfort, about the star-struck receptionist being manipulated by Harlow; and I empathised - more intensely - with Harun's livelihood in Calcutta. While I soaked and rinsed in these emotions, the pages started becoming a part of my nightly ritual.
Potboilers
I read Personal (Lee Child). And I credit it with getting my mojo back. Personal reads like a movie script. It moves reasonably fast and had me hooked from the first chapter. I dug into it deep enough to resort to only one-pot meals for lunch and dinner for a week. I followed it up with The Golden Compass, which, although not really up my alley, at least got me turning pages doggedly. It's not that my life lacks drama (!), but a certain kinship develops with these books, as the characters navigate their own set of theatrics. Theirs is a different subset of problems, not mine to solve, and I would love to just put up my legs and watch how it all unfolds.
Tomes
Once the appetisers have done the trick, it is time to up the game. Big books (which I define as anything beyond two hundred pages) are difficult for me to sustain. I started reading A Suitable Boy in 2011. Of course, I haven't been reading it consistently (because, drama !), but I'm nowhere near completing it either. But having had my fill of ex-military alpha males and magical realms of the North, I fell next into Paradise Lost. I'm not sure how sustainable this exercise would be - considering that this is a history and a culture very alien to me - but quel surprise, I get it (or at least I think I do)! Long-term reading often gets a little tiring, and unless it is a library book I need to compulsorily return in two weeks, I often let it go midway. I may pick it up a few months later, and then again I may or may not finish it.
At the end of the day, all that matters is an escape. Even on a good day. Reading is good and necessary; but mostly it is about being grounded. And its effects are more lasting than seems apparent. So what if you haven't turned pages in a year? When life comes with a trough, books throw down the rope, and that is all we need to know.
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