Why I write (and read)

I found a few old scribbles. It may have been five years or so since I wrote this post. Each word still holds true, even though my style of writing may have changed. Here's how I got to read, and eventually write. It's about the foundation I'm building a tower on today.

Daddy is a conspicuous bibliophile

I’ve spent every summer from the age of 3 to 18 in Kuwait. I remember being surrounded by books in all shapes and sizes, stacked up in boxes or resting on shelves that hugged the walls of the spare room. My dad is a reader.

Mom, an official of the Clean Squad, would hand us a duster and lock us away in the room, with the promise of biryani. Daddy, armed with the cleaning cloth and his reading glasses, would sit in a little corner and patiently sift through each of his prized possessions. He would eagerly want to show me all of his hundred-odd James Hardly Chase novels at once but he'd begin by grabbing my attention with the colourful pictures in his treasured National Geographic magazines; ones that date back at least 30 years. 

This routine would play out as soon as Mummy would find Daddy ambling about at home over the weekend. There was only one thing for him to do—something, anything about the books! We would then quickly scamper to his little library (poorly disguised as my visiting room) and begin with the tidying. 

Come to think of it, that was when little me—in my PJs and bob cut—was hooked on to the myriad worlds that awaited bound between spines in all sizes. Those sessions introduced me to the whiff of old books and my father’s fondness for the written word.

He would ever-so-tenderly empty one over-flowing carton at a time, and wipe clean the thin film of dust on the books’ covers—front, then back. He would then page through the introduction and read out when, and from where, he had gotten the book; a habit I’ve inherited. It made him so happy; I vividly remember it showing on his pink face.

We’d rearrange magazines as we spoke about his favourite genres—history, fiction, and mystery. He asked me what I liked to read best. I’d lamely manage the names of a few Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew novels I’d chanced upon in my school’s library. Now that I think of it, something triumphed inside him when we had these talks. He knew which one of his three little ones would inherit his treasures, when the time was right. 

To date, my father does not go to bed before he has read. It’s a virtue in his eyes, not to be loosely categorised as a habit. I have him to thank for so many things but our shared love for words on pages is number one. 

Mummy, on the other hand, silently stood at the doorway and smiled at her two crazy hoarders. The both of us have her to thank for completely understanding the obsession and oh-so lovingly humouring it.  

Post-script: This is the new bookshelf of my new life. I’ve been lucky to find a man, yet again, who is as obsessed with reading as my number one guy.