The Second Hand Books

I look at the second hand bookstall and wonder where these yellowed pages went wrong that their owner gave them away. These books stacked against each other wait for a new master; I wonder how many mishandled them.

The dull cover, the yellowed pages, the wrinkled spine tell the tale of their loyalty and yet they have no home to be in. I wonder for how long they have been alone with their comrades at sale without the curious minds to unravel what they hold back.

Which are the latest entries and the oldest one in the pile? How long does it take to attract another pair of eyes with the brightness of the cover page lost? Who would want to smell the browning pages and know whose thoughts lie in there to be read?

I wonder if they have an inscription or some lines marked. Were they given up for a reason or couldn’t impress the buyer? Were the expectations much more or were they simply in wrong hands?

Was Shakespeare too complicated for the brain that adapted Bhagat, was Sparks not as good as Segal? But wait, the names don’t matter. Be it the Bronte sisters or J.K. Rowling, their works end up in the same pile. Do these books still live with the hope of being read? Or they lie still without life, like people say they are supposed to be?

I wonder how people live without reading. I wonder how they have no books in their house where as I am restless in their absence, I wonder what life without books to read is like. Not everyone sees life in these books, the death of the tree used in the making is their only excuse.

I look at the second hand book stall and wonder if the people touching the books actually feel them, read them or just want to kill their time. I wonder if these books are laughed at or taken seriously. I wonder if there are people out there who want to own them all. I wonder what their fate would have been had this orphanage not been there to put them on sale. I wonder if the second hand books get a chance to simply breathe again.