You see that pretty little corner? It belongs to me. You’ll always find me there. Almost always. It is unorganized, just like me. From Gulzar, Javed Akhtar, to Murakami, Jane Austen, Amitav Ghosh, and a bunch of French grammar books, you’ll find it all, right there.
Each book there has a story of its own. Stories other than the ones mentioned on their cover pages. Infact they harbour several stories. Stories of how they came into my life. Stories that bring them closer to me. Stories that tell 'their' stories. Stories that explain how they travelled long distances to reach me. How they were stuffed with a bunch of other books and how it made them feel suffocated, at times.
Stories of how they felt when I left them midway to catch up with someone on call.
They narrate stories of loneliness. Loneliness that they feel when I don't touch them for months and almost forget about them. They look at me with expectant eyes. And me, I sometimes forget to even brush the dust off them.
They forget about the stories. The ones that I wrote on them. The ones that I weaved around them. The ones that may not tell the entire story but they do hint at their existence.
They don't notice the curves on my face every time I find them in the bookshelf.
They forget that there surely is a reason that I read and re-read them with same (even more) amount of affection.
Gifts, memories, greed, leisure, pleasure; they don't realize that for me, they are so much more than that!
They belong to me and I belong to them. :)