Back to reading

August 15 was my dad's birthday. He would have been ninety. It has been thirteen years since he died. Yes, DIED. Not "gone", "left us", "departed". As usual, I sent a happy birthday out into the emptiness, and hoped he rests in peace, wherever he is, or not. As I went around doing my usual doings, this particular day, as usual, brought back memories. Memories which made my heart heavy, and brought tears to my eyes.

And feelings of shame and guilt. I have let him down, badly. He would find it hard to recognize this person that I have become. Maybe not. Maybe he always knew. He was so proud of me, deservedly or not. I realize now that he had nothing to be proud of about me. He was the one. He was the one we all were proud of. Deservedly. He did the toughest thing in the world -- loved us. Stood by us. Hoped for us, with us. And I let him down.

The most shameful thing is that I stopped reading. Sure, I read news items, flipped through magazines, read a few Mysteries and best sellers here and there, old and new, even bought a number of books, hoping I would read them. I never did, to my utter mortification. Books were my life. Classic, contemporary, many novels were devoured eagerly. Literary criticism, history, narrative theories, philosophy, psychology ... I loved the printed word. The smell of books, of libraries. And I loved research, and connecting the dots, and analyzing and imagining. And I even wrote one, which my father read, and raved about(Surprise!🙂)

Then he died. My world, which was already getting rather shaky, crumbled. And the next shameful matter. My father would have been shocked at what can only be called my lack of character. I came to the conclusion that I was jealous of writers who were published, whose books were read by people. I kept away from them. And when I did manage to read , my attention was on the narrative technique of the writer. It was as if the magic was gone. I found flaws, chinks in the stories they built, and I was put off. Even as I knew that it was all part of my resistance, my self-sabotaging system. Gone were the days when I loved a book so much that I did not want it to end.
I, who had always thought myself to be above petty jealousies and greed, who could laugh at anything, who saw everyone as a friend, became distant, and paralyzed- With fear. Of failure, of success, of life. Even old friends had to be avoided. As I am no longer an academic, or a writer not even a reader, I felt I did not belong in their world.

I know, my father is dead. He is not seeing or feeling anything, let alone my self-bashing. But on this birthday of his, I decided to start reading again. To go to the library. Just like that. I had made such decisions before, and given up soon enough. And I had stopped trusting myself. But this time I think, I hope it is different. Because I detect that old yearning to get back to the books. And I did. For a day.

I should have known. I started to read, but my numerous chores seemed to jump up on me. Hanging on to me, clawing at me, trying to grab my attention. It was then I realized how scattered my attention and energies were. I wasn't that busy, these days, I had thought. Wrong! Time for myself, to sit quietly and away from it all is not the reality. Or did I create all these routines and tasks to avoid sitting still and thinking?

Maybe both, but this time I am glad I want to get back to my book. I already finished one, and am on the second. And in that first book, the protagonist is a woman whose life came to a standstill when her sister died. And she tries to write, unsuccessfully, an interesting coincidence.

And when I do sit down to read, what amuses me is the surprised and puzzled look on my dog's face. She is used to seeing the phone in my hand, and she eyes the book suspiciously, sniffing at it curiously. She seems to be a little miffed that she doesn’t get my complete attention when I am reading. She will get used to it soon enough, I hope my new found longing to read doesn’t fizzle out.