So after a hiatus of
probably half a dozen years I return to reading. And return back like I was
never gone. Sitting hours at an end in some cozy corner, trapped between the
lines written by authors who wrote and moved on, probably oblivious to the
lives they touch each day around the world.
Well, not exactly hours at
an end now, for there is no mommy around, to put a plate before you in between
your literary sojourns and says “Eat while you read” for she understands the
urgency of being enticed by words that do not warrant even a moment’s break.
And then there’s a mommy in me now instead who remembers it’s been ten minutes
too long without Seeya peeking in, if she’s not already around.
This time it’s love
blossoming for Khaled Hosseini, for I do not remember story telling being at
this high and beautiful notch of excellence. I began with “And The Mountain
Echoed” and I think the book would not end for me even though the pages ran off
eventually. I remember a good friend giving me ‘The Kite Runner’ around five
years back, out of his precious collection, telling me to read and fall in love
with it. I also remember starting it
and going on for about 50 pages when I lost interest and let the book adorn the
bookshelf like many others that I began but never really could conclude. Active participation in social
media, the commencing new role as a mother, the unwavering expectations and
grinds of everyday life and reading covertly turned into a luxury.
Maybe, there’s always a
right time to read someone’s words if you really want to appreciate them. The
background of Afghanistan and the wars, the Muslim customs and cultural differences,
the long descriptions of upheavals for the impatient reader in me, kind of
bogged me down as opposed to a light reading that I was perhaps looking for
then.
But then came 'And The
Mountain Echoed', thank god for hyper bout of unseen boredom. Little
stories that transport you to little worlds, characters that you tend to
identify with, irrespective of the gender or age or background they come from. Because
eventually our problems may be different, but they feel the same. Pain does not
come in different languages or versions.
It just hurts universally. Love does not know the bounds of religion or
nationality, it just grows naturally and tugs at a heart that has known it.
Desire may be requited or unrequited but seldom is it wrong or right for the
person who experiences it, running down in his veins like the very blood that
supports his being.
I think Hosseini had me from the very onset, the first story
that Saboor narrated to his children. I told the story to Seeya with a bit of
necessary editing for a four year old to fathom it in accordance with her
bounds. And when there was light in her eyes and a constant “Mamma, then?”
there was light in my eyes too. I want so much for her to see the world through
her eyes that could have been mine.
I wondered then if I had
taints of Uncle Nabi, who pined in silent desire for Nila or shades of Nila who
had too gypsy a spirit in her to be bogged down by social norms and confirm to
the mundane. I wondered how I would behave were I in place of Parwana or her
sister Masooma within a quickly dimming conscience over selfish grabbing of
hope for materializing the dreams that you’ve aspired for all your life. I shivered under the thoughts
of having to part with a child because poverty becomes too big a strain or the
idea of living without a sibling who meant the world to you. Somewhere Pari and
her struggles left me with a subconscious nervousness for Seeya and a “heaven
forbid” prayer said silently.
The novel grows on you. Each
time the author ends one long chapter of a life he paints before you with deft
strokes, you feel the loss of having parted with a loved one. I remember a dear
friend once saying he could not relate to fiction stories, with characters that
he knew did not exist but were born out of the mind of one writer penning them.
I also remember how I had argued with the notion for how could you not picture
the character most vividly in your head once you read such brilliance. For me these
people were living, breathing, feeling and ageing right before my eyes. The idea
of having walked through with them in their journey like a silent companion in the
shadows. Another dear friend mentioned how he had tears in his eyes after
having read Hosseini. Well, as surprised as I was at such an effect of books on
people, it really would get comprehensible perhaps if you submerged yourself
with sensitivity in a book, that maybe I still lack.
I want to go on talking
about the characters but then I’d want you to experience them first, if you
haven’t already. The Kite Runner followed this and I’m not so sure if I have
managed to come out of the ravaged lanes of Afghanistan or the lofty humans Hosseini left me with as fellow travelers in the maze of emotions and life, even though it’s been a
week of having read them. This time around, I loved The Kite Runner too,
experiencing the familiar disinclination to keep down the book from my hand
without my eyes having devoured it all, in an innate sense of urgency.
I return back to reading
and I am filled with a sense of completion. You know how sometimes in your
lives so full, you move around with unnamed voids and just don’t know how to
deal with them? I think I just dealt with one of them. Reading is perhaps like
swimming, like loving. You could be years out of practice but one right dip and
a splash of it on you and you begin to wade through with open arms till you swirl and glide and drench in it with the confidence of being at home. At peace!
“Out beyond ideas of
wrong doing and right doing, there is a field.
I’ll meet you there.”
The lines he began with
and the lines where I end.
3 comments:
Hosseini has always mesmerized me with his words. Especially in "And the Mountains Echoed', it was beautiful poetry penned in the most beautiful manner. I have read all three books by him and though each carries the spirit of Afghanistan and its culture, not once did it get repetitive.
I'm glad you're back to blogging. And yes, for an ardent reader novels shall always be the perfect refuge. :)
heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy how you doing stranger .. good to see a post from you .. I just saw it by chance , I have come after a long time to blogging myself almost 16 months later ..
so Rememeber ME :) ?
I am not that smart or clever not heard of the author.. :( .. but seems interesting and thanks for introducing
Bikram
I haven't read this one, but I have read "A thousand splendid suns" and was affected for too long.
And yes, you should continue blogging as well. I am an admirer and you write so well :-)
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