On the roads in those tiny little abodes rest heaps of books. And when my eyes wander along the columns searching for the the pages under every nameplate which binded into a house soothing enough to compel me to call it home, I realised that the nature of my stay isn’t really based on what the names make or the pages described but the life they kindled within. I could feel the propensity of my soul turning in for a divide, for it wanted bits and pieces of it in every house that it felt of a nature of a heavenly dwelling.
The question was how can one man’s mind opine in it’s stubborn accord of living in all those tiny little worlds all at once? The answer was somewhat intricately simple, the mind is always hungry for learning something new, experiencing the unknown and living in distant far off places within. A constant urge to discover things alien to it, a constant need to assimilate the details into it and live by the values thus manifested in it’s core. One cannot guarantee that one would see every nook and corner of the world in a lifetime, but a lifetime is enough to have the courage to constantly feed your mind of things that nourishes it as one does in maintaining the garden that one keeps – looking after the plants that grow on the soil that is charged up with manure and nutrients. I think what makes reading a distinguished venture into self-care is the benefits that it carries with it, it nourishes one’s mind and soul.
Thus, it is these little tiny abodes that find their home in the places of common touch like the Wheeler bookstores in railway stations of India, the ones you’d find in some remote corner of a busy city which lacks of every luxury of a decent, high profile bookstore but a collection of the top-read titles all blended with the scent of old paper like the aroma of filtered coffee. You may not find the collections of Tolstoy, Orwell, King or Shakespeare but you, for sure, would find the singular ones that have the weight to move the mountains within you. Now I am not against them fancy stores, they serve their purpose very well, where a few kind words may bag you an assurance from the keeper to furnish you with your title by the weekend or so. But, a visit to these places that smell of old paper is indeed a thrilling bet. For worse you may not find any piece that makes you stand on one leg for hours together, for the better, well you may end up with pieces that force your eyes and attention to run between the rows of the lines of neatly arranged words, make your feet glued at one place and maybe make your arms ache under the delightful weight of some of those books which you or your soul searched for for years together.