It was good to be home, to dust my old bookshelf and find books which had collected dust and yellow stains, a few had been nibbled by rats but no major damage done otherwise. Being someone who found company in books, and who was taught from an early age that reading isn’t just a pastime but more of a lifestyle, I had come to realise that while solitude beckons, I can still get lost in the company of my old mates, relive my early years, reread a few lines and go back to discover the tales of life, love and struggles which have moulded me into becoming half the man that I am, the other half is now to be discovered as I turn over the pages from my collection.
It is amusing as to how we end up becoming something that we fantasize, while it might not last forever but the impact can be enormous, at times life changing, life threatening too. The 10 year old me had always romanticised the idea of falling in love, breaking my heart and then dying of longing. I had forever imagined myself to be this tragic hero, who loves immensely and loses out, now 20 years down the line it lights up my mood and also casts a dark shadow hovering over my mind, making me feel: Perhaps, Yes, I have lived through it, I am living through it.
I remember reading Sarat.C Chattopadhya’s tragedy ‘Devdas’ as a 15 year old, how fascinating it then seemed to die at the gates of your beloved. At 30, I realize the protagonist was an egoistic person, a narcissist. My notion about certain characters have changed, but the fascination of being a tragic hero and glorifying tragedy hasn’t.
Unrequited and unfulfilled desires make the best stories, timeless they are. A happy ending has an end to it, clichéd it is. Tragedies are more intense, think of Macbeth or Romeo and Juliet or Hamlet, they make such real stories, if not beautiful. Love and ordeals of life knitted together to bring forth stories that are as real as life itself.
As, I now flip through the pages of my old books some passed on to me by my grandfather, I realize how far I have come, to what extent I have been able to live up to that childhood fascination of mine. Love – checked, heartbreak – checked, longing – this I hope goes on, I pray it does. Death?? Isn’t separation as painful?? Death kills you but once. How about dying a death with every breathe you exhale?
The 10 year old in me is rejoicing, the 30 year old isn’t; both contradicting each other, I’d still go with the 10 year old me.
” ‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. ” said Tennyson, and how true, I loved, I lost but I haven’t lost out. The 10 year old me hasn’t, it’s time I flip through the pages, find the love that I lost, and keep it locked inside, within me.
P.S: Estella, you have been the dream of my soul since I was 10. I seek, I read and I find you. Look, you are here, right beside me.
abhishek purkayastha 