it was more than just reading:
it was my first hindi literature
for you it might be diagon alley, for me it will always be chu mantar gali.
it was my first literal crush in hermoine
my cramming of stats of professional wrestling
my escape into silence
the voice to not cause violence
it was peace
it was a friend
it was a promise that we will meet again
it was puberty: it was expressing a woman’s body with tenderness & firmness.
it was mental notes for future.
it was an unturned page, carrying hope
it was the smell of paper, the inkling of ink.
it was my first love letter with the burnt edges to express warmth
it was the revenge r us, the famous five, the oliver twists and charles dickens
it was the annihilation of caste (jai bhim) which made a brahmin finally understand
it was the songs my mother taught me
it was team of rivals, it was thakur ka kua.
it was it- the only book that has made me cry.
it was an actor prepares, it was marlon brando and his lies.
it was homicide, suspense, blood, gore and suspension of disbelief.
it was therapeutic. it was finding answers to things beyond comprehension.
it was 19 subjects; it was the understanding of the human mind, body and emotions.
it was the killing joke. batman. it was gandhi, obama, nehru & tagore.
it was spilled coffee over the cover.
it was beer sprayed over my collection.
it was my mother’s gifts.
it was my sisters’ ideas & poems.
it was my father’s letters and political speeches.
it was debates. it was the gujarat files.
it was the kite runner. it was holmes and agatha.
it was barkha & rekhta.
it was bollywood blinds and gossip.
it was bikes and john kerouc (on the road)
it was bob dylan’s words sprayed over a canvas of paper for he is the greatest artist of our generation.
it was revolution; the rising of a nation.
it was an emotion, a contemplation.
it was sadhguru and then the act of throwing him in the trash can.
it was christopher hitchens. it was the hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy.
it was a woman’s christmas gift of no is a four letter word.
it was blossom’s book house in bangalore’s sun shine.
it was the notebook that my fiance read (then re-read) and cried.
it is a love letter that i write to her every day.
the reason an atheist prays.
it was hindi speeches to prepare for the future.
it was kashmir, it was javed akhtar.
it was shakespeare & words we didn’t understand
or never bothered to look up and continued to pretend.
it was monologues. it was scripts. it was theatre.
it was dover beach.
it was in the time of your life by william saroyan, the closest thing to the impression of life.
it was sonnet 116. it was a love story and a tragedy.
it was friendship and philosophy.
it was history.
it was culture.
it was real. it was stories. it was us.
and hence, forever, a member of the book club.
मंच 