When no one was looking, she found herself sitting on a stone bench beneath a cherry blossom tree, a book resting in her lap. Her face broke into a smile.
It was an old copy. She opened the book and ran her palm across the page, feeling the texture and the traces of a handwritten message:
‘उनके लिए जिन्हें शब्दों की जादूगरी पर यक़ीन है…’
(For those who believe in the magic of words.)
She leafed through the pages and paused on a paragraph.
‘—पुरानी लिखी हुई कॉपी के बीच एक अनलिखा, कोरे पन्ने सा सफ़ेद और विस्मयकारी। वह सपने सा लगता। ट्रॉली बस की तारों पर पक्षियों की काली कतार लग जाती―धूप में अपने पंख सेकती हुई। हम इन्हें झूठे बसंत के दिन कहा करते थे।’
A soft breeze caressed her face, and she looked up. A wispy cherry blossom waltzed down and brushed her cheek as it fell on the book. A faint fragrance lingered in the air.
And then, as the place came into her full view, her breath caught in ecstatic surprise. A cobblestone boulevard, lined with flowering trees in various colours, stretched ahead, opening towards a cerulean lake. It looked as though all four seasons had merged.
The sunlight was soft, hanging like a transparent curtain. ‘I have this book; can't wait to dive into it!’ She put the book on the bench and rose to her feet.
Books —lots of books, were tucked into charming little shelves built along the roadside. Lovely pink carts laden with volumes, and an old blue jeep, half hidden among the fluttering wildflowers in the velvety meadows to the left—all unattended as though waiting for anyone who loved to read. On cue, a faint scent of old paper drifted through.
It was a mesmerizing dream, so vivid that it felt lucid. A giddy sensation filled her as she sauntered ahead, taking in the dreamscape. A man was turning the pages of a book, leaning against a moon shaped bookshelf.
She could see the cover. ‘From Scratch’ by Tembi Locke.
‘Oh, I really want to read this book!’ She blurted in delight.
The man turned to look at her. Enchanting eyes behind golden framed spectacles. He smiled. ‘I’m sure you’ve watched the series,’ he said.
‘Oh, yes! It was so heartbreaking and heartwarming at the same time.’
The man stretched out his hand, the same lopsided smile on his face. ‘Here, take it. You won't be able to decide whether the series is more beautiful or the book.’
She took the book hesitantly and kept it close to her heart. ‘Really?!’
‘Absolutely really.’ He laughed and looked around. ‘You can take any of these books. No worries at all.’
She turned to find a small cottage style bookshop across the road, close to the lake. Turquoise panels, glass windows, nestled beneath a large Jacaranda tree, purple blooms hugging the red tiled rooftop of the shop. Bookshop Sirimiri. She gasped and the man, busy with another book, chuckled.
She opened ‘From Scratch' as she sprinted towards the library.
‘…a memoir of love, Sicily, and finding home’
As she stepped into the bookshop, a woody scent mingled with the faint aroma of coffee and cinnamon greeted her. A book seemed to be smiling at her from the reception desk —‘Boy, Unloved’ by Damodar Mauzo, translated by one of her favourites: Jerry Pinto.
An adorable elderly woman looked up, smiled and said, ‘We have many lovely reading corners. Read whatever you like, as much as you want.’
A strange calm whispered through the space. She made her way towards her reading nook, reading a paragraph from the book:
‘Like scars, these memories will stay with me for a lifetime. What age was I when the windows and doors of the house last stood open? When Daddy and Ma sat and actually talked to each other, discussed things? When someone said a word of praise to me?’
She slipped into a comfortable chair resting beside a white wooden table; a wall-sized window overlooked the same cerulean lake that ran alongside.
And then someone placed another book on the table and drifted away.
‘Lonely People Meet’ by Sayantan Ghosh. She picked up the copy and read a paragraph:
‘He didn’t feel the instant desire of puppy love which convinces people to seek immediate companionship. Instead, he wished this to be like catching a slow-moving train. One that’s about to leave the station, the whistle has been blown, but there’s enough time to jog alongside before finally grabbing the handle and taking the leap.’
She set both the books on the table. There was something about the titles and the passages. A soft melancholy settled over her. She sighed and looked out the window. It had started to drizzle. Sirimiri.
This post is part of BlogchatterHalfMarathon
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