Corona Diaries 16: Missing The Magic Of Words – A Book-Lover’s Lament

Books, goes the saying, are a man’s best friend. Not quite, unless your stock of books gets replenished at regular intervals and you always have fresh ones to dive into. Repeating the same ones, particularly after a short gap, is as much fun as chewing a day-old pizza. As the sequel to the sequel of lockdown is ready to kick in, there’s a certain despondence and listlessness among book-lovers. They had prepared for the first lockdown, procuring a decent stock to last three weeks, maybe a bit longer. Further extensions have been a double whammy.

The internet is some solace. With some effort, you can ferret out literature worth your time. But it hardly delivers the undiluted joy of reading. For bibliophiles, holding a book, turning the pages and placing bookmarks is a thrilling experience everytime. To them, the book is a living, breathing, talking entity which till the last paragraph and the last full-stop is an exhilarating journey. E-readers are helpful, but somehow they diminish the delight of a physical book. Paper, ink, printed letters, margins, spaces and every other thing about a real book cook up the high that no virtual book can.

Book-lovers are surely missing the high. At the end of the lockdown, a few of them are likely to report depression. It is not because they had to endure isolation from the world outside, but because they failed to utilise the isolation in the way they would have loved: in the company of words.

LIFE WITHOUT BOOKS

This friend cannot stop cursing himself. He should have anticipated the lockdown extension but didn’t. He had readied himself with four positively-reviewed books of decent size: Salman Rushdie’s Quichotte, the modern-day retelling of an imaginary man’s quixotic journey across seven valleys to find his lady love, mimicking the original Spanish classic by Miguel de Cervantes dated early 17th century; Shehan Karunatilaka’s Chats With The Dead, the engaging story of a dead gay Srilankan photographer who is out to resolve the mystery of his own murder despite being trapped in the Kafasque bureaucracy of ghostdom; William Dalrymple’s Anarchy, a scholarly work on how the East India Company, an entity with an office five windows wide in London and accountable to its shareholders only, went on to establish an empire in a span of only four decades through ruthless search for profit; and Perumal Murugan’s Poonachi, the highs and lows in the life’s journey of an unusual goat received as gift by a poor farmer couple.

Each of the book had an interesting premise. But what also mattered was bulk. All, barring Poonachi, had good number of pages. Some rationing, certain number of pages everyday, the friend reasoned, would help him last the duration of the lockdown.

It started off well. But what he had failed to account for was he would have three sessions with the books daily instead of the usual one. Also, rationing does not quite work when you are caught in the flow and are enjoying the trip. So he was done with his stock in a fortnight.

Now he has plenty of time to call others and narrate his sob story to whoever would listen.

BACK INTO SPIDEY’S WEB

Adults and comic books don’t usually go together. ‘Usually’ because even though people of all ages enjoy comics, we have managed to punch the genre into a certain age bracket. Also, we have managed to bring in certain social shaming into it. So people beyond that bracket who enjoy comics are too embarrassed to admit their weakness to friends and other adults. Now, they have started foraging the bookshelves of their kids to get hold of those forbidden books.

An attempt to re-live the innocent, impressionable childhood days? An effort to escape the morose everyday reality through the fantastic world of superheroes of the desi and foreign kind? Far from it. The truth is more prosaic. After exhausting all movies on television, including those horribly dubbed South Indian ones, and web series on offer on OTT streaming platforms and unread books on the shelves, there’s no other go. There is nothing much to keep oneself busy with.

So it has to be whatever readable left in the house. It is the only go to option. So don’t be surprised if you find pops cheering the friendly neighbourhood Spiderman.

BRING THE MAGIC BACK

Words are magic. The same, obviously, goes for good books, the beguiling combination of words that produces a refreshing experience each time it is rearranged by new imagination. In the unusual times of distancing and isolation, they can be soothing balm on ruffled nerves.

To quote American writer EB White, “Books are good company, in happy times, in sad times. For books are people – people who have managed to stay alive by hiding between the covers of a book.” Certainly, they allow us to meet interesting people everytime and live their realities. What can be a better escape in times like these?

Perhaps it is time for governments to make a special concession for book-lovers. Books should be equated with essential items and be home delivered on order like grocery.