bipin
She walked in from behind the bookrack just as I tipped Bhyrappa's 'Vamshavraksha', as if tilting the book had opened a mysterious vault from whence she came. We shuffled apologetically past each other, as is customary in the cramped, musty aisles of Premier bookstore. Years later, we would return, and pretend to be strangers again, but we were not to know it then.
Instead, that evening, we were introduced by the authors that we both so cherished. As we parted, we decided that we were to meet the next day: she had to have my copy of Wuthering Heights. The need for such hastily crafted excuses was to soon vanish, replaced by an implicit understanding that Friday nights would be spent together - reading together.
It was then perhaps, that we developed this most curious habit: 'reading together' wasn't interpreted to mean sitting together and reading our respective books, immured in silence. No, we read books together - to each other. Chapters were read out aloud, wine glass in hand, in alternating baritone and soprano voices.
Together, we swam the oceans with Melville, flew magic carpets past the Taj with Rushdie, drank tea with Austen and visited exotic lands with Marquez. On dark blue nights, we gazed up at the stars with Bryson, and peeped inside our souls with Krishnamurti. Two years later, soaked in the torrid Indian sun and redness of eternity, we read promises to each other.
'Bob the Builder' was read, replete with engine-toots and duck-quacks, as much for her as it was for our bonny little girl, Smriti. Over cups of tea on cold wintry Bangalore days, we turned the pages of our lives. I remember she read Randy Pausch's 'The last lecture' to me, when, after twenty years, I retired as an English professor from Josephs. I remember her tears staining the pages, as I read 'Tabbaliyu neenaade magane' to her when Smriti left us, much to her discomfort: she lost not just a daughter, but also her religion.
In a home that had begun to resemble the bookstore we'd first met, we grew old. As if hastily preparing to for an appointment with our Maker, we spent all day reading the Gita (and surprisingly, on her insistence, the Quran). In reality, submitting to Donne's poppied dream wasn't that easy.
As she lay gasping her final breath, I bent down to read to her one last time: a book that I'd never read to her before - my journal, our story. Of poems read under candle-light. Of her gripping my hand tight as we read Mary Shelly. Of her gripping my hand tight as I spoke to her father. Of Smriti. Of our loss. Of our togetherness.
Love, like a journal, isn't captured in glamorous balls, expensive homes or climactic events. Instead, it is in those moments where nothing happens, that everything does.
It is the incompleteness of a journal, the lack of finality, I think, that makes me miss her so.
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Instead, that evening, we were introduced by the authors that we both so cherished. As we parted, we decided that we were to meet the next day: she had to have my copy of Wuthering Heights. The need for such hastily crafted excuses was to soon vanish, replaced by an implicit understanding that Friday nights would be spent together - reading together.
It was then perhaps, that we developed this most curious habit: 'reading together' wasn't interpreted to mean sitting together and reading our respective books, immured in silence. No, we read books together - to each other. Chapters were read out aloud, wine glass in hand, in alternating baritone and soprano voices.
Together, we swam the oceans with Melville, flew magic carpets past the Taj with Rushdie, drank tea with Austen and visited exotic lands with Marquez. On dark blue nights, we gazed up at the stars with Bryson, and peeped inside our souls with Krishnamurti. Two years later, soaked in the torrid Indian sun and redness of eternity, we read promises to each other.
'Bob the Builder' was read, replete with engine-toots and duck-quacks, as much for her as it was for our bonny little girl, Smriti. Over cups of tea on cold wintry Bangalore days, we turned the pages of our lives. I remember she read Randy Pausch's 'The last lecture' to me, when, after twenty years, I retired as an English professor from Josephs. I remember her tears staining the pages, as I read 'Tabbaliyu neenaade magane' to her when Smriti left us, much to her discomfort: she lost not just a daughter, but also her religion.
In a home that had begun to resemble the bookstore we'd first met, we grew old. As if hastily preparing to for an appointment with our Maker, we spent all day reading the Gita (and surprisingly, on her insistence, the Quran). In reality, submitting to Donne's poppied dream wasn't that easy.
As she lay gasping her final breath, I bent down to read to her one last time: a book that I'd never read to her before - my journal, our story. Of poems read under candle-light. Of her gripping my hand tight as we read Mary Shelly. Of her gripping my hand tight as I spoke to her father. Of Smriti. Of our loss. Of our togetherness.
Love, like a journal, isn't captured in glamorous balls, expensive homes or climactic events. Instead, it is in those moments where nothing happens, that everything does.
It is the incompleteness of a journal, the lack of finality, I think, that makes me miss her so.
Poll Rate this entry