In a well-stocked book shelf at a friend’s place, one book seemed to call out to me. I pulled it out, read the blurb on the back cover, then turned it around to see the front cover. An attractive cover is always a bonus, but just a simple and tastefully designed cover is adequate too. This was a book I instantly felt I would like. My friend parted with the book happily. Indeed, a true book-lover always loves lending a book to another reader, along with a tiny review, secure in the knowledge that it will be looked after well and returned in good condition.
Once the book was in my hands, I couldn’t wait to get home and start reading. I had expected that I would begin the book the moment my daily tasks were over. But I now realise there is more to starting a book, a protocol to be followed unconsciously. The book got placed on the shelf where I normally placed new and unread books: believe me, even an ardent reader can have a stock of unread books. I picked it up and placed it next to me on the bedside table after dinner, but then decided to finish the book that I was reading on my Kindle.
Early the next morning I carried the book, along with my cup of tea, to the balcony and settled down to read, but the newspapers arrived when I had only finished the first two paragraphs of the introduction. The book accompanied me through the day, resting on the table while I worked on my laptop, perched on the microwave while I was in the kitchen and resting on my lap while I watched a serial on Netflix.
By the time I opened the book to Chapter 1, it had become a friend. The smell of the book, while fresh, did not seem unfamiliar. The contours of the book had also become comfortable. I lay back to read what now felt like an extension of my arm. Only as I delved further into the book would I know whether this was going to be a fond companion or an unwanted appendage that I couldn’t wait to get rid of.
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