The nightly ritual was to curl up with a good book. Little Me would wriggle in between my parents, clutching my own, earnestly pondering the pages and turning them periodically, “reading” a book that was often upside-down. Baba recounts this start of my reading journey fondly. Growing up in the vibrant city of Bombay, the days were filled with torrential monsoons and the smell of the jam-stained pages of oft-read books mingling with the freshness of wet earth in the rain.
Six cities, two continents and well over a decade later, the towering piles of books are continuing their skyward growth as I fruitlessly attempt to read them all, though I don’t think that’s a battle I actually want to win.
A friend had the brilliant idea of reading a book from every country in the world in a year. Or, at the rate I’m going, several books over several years. It’s whole new worlds of books, many extraordinary discoveries and a welcome change to, in retrospect, a myopic literary diet.