There are a million books in the world. How do you know which ones to read and which ones not to? Once upon a time, long long ago, I read wholly for pleasure. I read what I liked to read. When I stopped reading Sidney Sheldon (alright, everyone’s been through that phase, don’t raise your eyebrows), it was because I was tired of reading Sidney Sheldon. Cycle back even further into the past and repeat with Franklin W. Dixon and Carolyn Kleene (Biggest Bhasad ever na? :P). The only things I considered when I went to library to borrow a new book were how much fun would it be to read it and then, how provocative the cover of the book was. Which is why I could never read Harold Robbins in peace, but alas…I digress.
Then there comes a time where you slowly start to relate things that you read elsewhere. And how you understand that because of small things you read at some point of time, you know the nuances – okay, who am I kidding? You can gas around – of a subject of conversation slightly better than your contemporaries. And then it dawns on you. What fantastic learning it was coupled with the entertainment. Arthur Hailey and Fredrick Forsyth probably taught me more than two years of junior college put together.
And that I have now realised, kinda sucked it out. Today I still enjoy reading, but I always want to gain something from it.
At Flora Fountain, you look through the stack of Agatha Christies. You’ve read them all. But you’ve forgotten the nitty-gritties in most of them. You want to read them again. Then a small voice speaks in the back of your head: ‘You already know how it’ll end. Well at least you have an idea. Does it really make sense to spend two and a half hours only admiring the finer details? You could read ‘The Creation of Wealth’ and learn about the Tata’s and about our country as well.’ And so grudgingly you pick R.M. Lala’s musings on 20th century Indian industry and start to plough through it.
How can you let go? Or is it too late? How I wish I didn’t think so much