I’ve got mail today; an early Christmas present for myself, from Debook Room. I have this strong adulation over paperbacks. Since I was eight and Mom gave me the Murugan comic book. I love the feeling of soft papers under my palm and the eagerness of my fingers in flipping the pages. I am always fascinated with collections of words focused single-minded in one direction.
Each book carries a soul in it and shares a part of the soul with every reader it comes across with. Each book conveys a story that could be interpreted into different thoughts by different individuals. I don’t dislike any book, just that sometimes I don’t feel connected to the way some authors present the story. I believe that disliking a book is like discriminating a person for being black or white. You can’t dislike a soul only because you don’t understand the language it speaks.
I also believe in stories. That every one of us has a story to tell. Though I have plenty and can’t shut up appropriately. It can be simple and conventional as your daily routine. Or convoluted and twisted as your inner seek for answers. What distinguishes each one of the stories is the courage in extracting them out of your soul and conveying them to the world. Courage to drown the voices that tell you otherwise. Courage to deafen your ears to your haters. Courage to know when to stop.
Writers are also mothers. They create stories from mere thoughts. They string the pebbles together and present them as a polished necklace of stories. First such writer who fascinated all my senses is Joanne Kathleen Rowling. At the age of 13, I didn’t know she would make a huge difference in my life. When I was confused of myself and trying to fit into the pragmatic teen image; When I was finding for values to grab on, she came into my life preaching about love,friendship and goodness. She was there in my bedroom every night, preaching me to love everyone equally. She was there beside me admiring the sky filled with stars, consoling me that friends are worth fighting for. She was there throughout my guilt, convincing me to admit my mistake when I copied in an exam.
While I’m all grown up or so I think, I found another writer who never fails to surprise my cells of romance : Susan Elizabeth Phillips. She’s unbelievably humorous and romantic without being cheesy. She is the reason I have a prolonged Disney syndrome. Where I have these fantasies about true love and soul mates. About hunky egoistic dysfunctional men falling in love with interesting confident strong women. She makes me laugh out loud like a complete lunatic in a bus full of people. She makes me have sleepless nights reading her books in a go. She teaches me to be myself, no matter how weird you can be to the world. She makes me believe. She keeps my faith going. She is completely responsible for my obsession with fictional characters. One day I hope she gives me the courage to make drastic decisions to reach out to my own crazy mad love. To my very own Kevin Tucker.
Books give me pure happiness. Happiness that is everlasting. Be it romance, chick-lit, thriller or biographies. Having a favorite book feels like having a best friend. The one who understands you. The one you know as the back of the your hand yet learn a thing or two new each time you flip the pages. The one who would follow you everywhere, keeping you company over a cup of coffee. The one who leaves a trail of aroma that smells awfully a lot like your favorite Flora perfume.