The dusty cupboards

{Fiction}

They say some people leave a mark in our life when they depart from theirs. I have been feeling that lately. Should I blame the inability of not feeling it, to my childhood innocence or my innate incapability to feel things that felt superficial at least to me?  I am yet to find the answer.

But the first sign of realization occurred when I was smaller. I remember the big wooden cupboards in my grand father’s room filled with old books, there were books for every one irrespective of the age and genre. It was my grandfathers style to let people read it only after lot of begging, I guess that made him feel powerful, to let kids beg. And I never felt bad that I am begging either, self respect and ego were alien terms then. Any way when the books are returned with even a single fold his face would turn red with anger. One of the character I inherited from him. Another one is that I never visit a library the mere thought of returning the book haunts me..  Standing before the big cupboards watching wide eyed at those big beautiful books, and inhaling the scent of these was divine. People say new books smell good.. but nothing can beat the old smell of my grand pa’s book shelf..

And then suddenly he passed away, I was unable to cry, I stood beside his calm sleeping figure starting at him. I understood the term “to die with dignity” when I saw his face. It still held his native pride.  Looking around I saw my parents, my uncle and every of the elder weeping. But what bothered me more was that my cousin was weeping too, she was attracting a small crowd around her to pacify her. What did I have, some glances from some inquisitive faces.

Can I assure you that I really did try to cry, I thought of him, the goodness he had shed in my life, my most painful school days, the worst beating I had received from dad, anything that could bring a little moisture in my eyes. But nothing came, there I stood as hard as a rock, staring at him and at times even smiling at my cousin’s silly wailing. Some one took me by hand and took me away from the gathering, they said I was not supposed to smile in such an occasion, while walking away I heard my father say, “She is too young to understand”.

But after a year when I saw the mold and silverfish filled book cabinet of my grandfather, I cried for him, for his passion and my legacy.. Each book had opened itself willingly to me, letting me watch every character emerge from it, I lived with them, I despised the bad, adored the good, I chuckled with them, and somehow somewhere let myself sink deep into it. It was a beautiful dream a dream of endless plots.. endless places.. and endless emotions..  But they are all gone now.. those things that were dear to him, were ignored and forgotten like him and his memories. And they say I am selfish.

After this many years, I can still hear someone or the other say, “You are selfish..”.I try to wake up to reality  but still I reach no where. Life changed, so did people, But I remained the same.. nothing changed me.. no change impacted me.. yet they said I am deluded..

To me, life and books seemed to be similar. I wish to run away and cuddle inside my grandfather’s dusty cupboard and shut myself from the ever changing world.. I wish I would stay still in there unaffected by the filthy life and its twists and turns. If only I could flip back some pages.

Every time I flip the pages in a book, back and forth, a rustic jealousy enthralls me.. How simple it is to go back a few pages, how simple it is to flip them around.. A book always thrills me, a place heaped with books creates an impact that lets me doubt the humanity in me.. Lock me in a room with only books, and who knows I may survive happily..  am I selfish!