Tryst with the books

One of the worst things, when the celebrity dies, is that you don't have anything to write about the deceased person. Growing up in the moderately middle-class family, Bollywood movies were once in a blue moon opportunity. I distantly remember preserving movie tickets even after their use; because occasions were rare.

Most of my childhood memories are either with books or with the RSS shaka I used to attend. However, I drifted apart from RSS as I developed my own taste for which books provided principle kinetic energy.

Bollywood was not there with me on this journey. It came late only with the advent of personal computers, torrents which created a breathing space but soon to be replaced by Hollywood & Netflix. Living in a joint family made me do the hell lot of exercises to get hold of a remote control. Even if I somehow manage to catch a remote then there would be the constant commentary of adults about the `the generation debate'. One of the deep impacts of this on me was that I developed distant liking from my family members. Neither cricket nor Bollywood, it was the books who provided me safe adobe to explore imagination.

It is precisely the fact that everyone in the crowded, ever pouring metro cities hunts for privacy without peeping inside, purposely forgetting the fact that the peace rests within. Today after reading so many rest in peace message all I can do is recall Roberto Bolaño, a Chilean writer. As he proclaims, `Books are finite, sexual encounters are finite, but the desire to read and to fuck is infinite; it surpasses our own deaths, our fears, our hopes for peace.'

#ninadkharkar

Roberto Bolaño,a Chilean writer