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.
Image source- Google |
Comments
Post a Comment