We were reorganising our bookshelves over the weekend. I have lost, given away many books over the years, always expecting them to return to me in some form, at some point of time. But wait, this isn't about that. While, I can "buy" some book again, some books are just too close to be lost.
Kolatkar's “Boat ride and other poems” was one such book. I have gone back to that book in times of despair and angst. A friend if you will . When I couldn't find it, I felt a deep sense of loss. I looked all Saturday and Sunday. On Monday, I was close to giving up. I was wondering who took that book. All shelves and corners had been cleaned and looked at. I knew for sure, of all books I had, that one I would never lend. But this is not about that angst either.
It had been on mind so much that I dreamt of it. Have you ever wondered about your dreams? I do. I'm very intrigued by my dreams. They say it's a manifestation of your subconscious, so I always wonder what triggers those dreams. And what memories it elicits. They also say you actually don't see colours in your dream and when you remember the dreams , it is actually a juxtaposition of those with your own senses, of sounds, smells and colours.
So, I had this dream. I went on boat. From the Gateway of India. Through Elephanta. At the turn strangely, I was at Chilika. And stranger still I got off at my door step at home. My home , which is on a valley, no sea, no lake. I was still looking for my book. I asked everyone on the way. Strangers, friends, some who I haven't spoken to in years. I spoke to them about the book and if they had seen it. The blue waves on the cover , the odd size of the book and the poems themselves.
By the way, dreams are rarely this linear. I was going back and forth. And this isn't about that too.
It's about the library I arrived at. My first library. I had my own before I could walk, but this was a proper library, where you could borrow books from. I opened the old cupboard, and there it was, the shiny bright blue book, sitting atop the oldest books. That's when I woke up. With a feeling I must find the book. Or order it.
And I have been thinking of that library since.
It was a library started by my uncle, my father's older brother. It was the darkest mustiest room in the entire household. The almirahs were wooden, with these little intricately designed locks. All the keys went into this big bunch. He had named it after my grandmother. "Kumudini Library".I’m not sure who borrowed books from there. It probably had about two thousand books, of all kinds. It was a memory that had been forgotten. And the dream brought back that from some deep corner. The memories of my first formal library when I was about three I think. The smells of the musty books. The feel of the yellowed pages. I ran my fingers over the books, not recognising many letters or words, but with a deep sense of belonging. To that smell, to that feeling being a part of the rows of books.
So weird. There is another memory that has been found too. But more on that later. I wanted to record this before I forget.
And yes, the actual book has been found. It was sitting with Babu's 10th prep books, which he has tied in a box and kept away. The poems were probably figuring out the probability of me finding them , in the Math books or finding Chemistry in Babu's box.Probably feeling more at home than in my little book shelf. We will never know.
