Read to Me
Do you not remember how in school, the teacher would read
aloud to us and we all would sit enthralled, imagining the poor hare asleep
under a tree while the tortoise slowly and steadily crossed the finish line? Or
when one was sick, moping in bed, a sympathetic sibling would come and read Hardy
Boys books to us?
As a mother of two kids now, I am jolted by long-forgotten childhood memories resurfacing quite frequently. Most of those memories involve books-not as a centrepiece but as a benign, undemanding presence in our exciting lives. Evenings at home were my parents and us children sitting in the living room, with different books. Dinners were my mother scolding me and my sister to keep our books aside and eat first. Summer vacations were sitting under a mango tree, reading The Famous Five. If one found an interesting passage especially the ones with the description of the hightea, one read it out loud to the cousins lounging nearby, each holding their own book in hand. Someone usually went looking for biscuits after that. Winters were snuggling under a quilt, reading about Ruskin Bond’s Rusty. Adulthood brought a wider array of books, more thought provoking, sometimes making one uncomfortable. 1984 by George Orwell made me cry-twice. The Love Story made me laugh first and then cry. BKS Iyengar’s yoga books had my body contorted in impossible shapes. Babasaheb Ambedkar’s Buddha and His Dhamma brought me peace.
As a mother of two kids now, I am jolted by long-forgotten childhood memories resurfacing quite frequently. Most of those memories involve books-not as a centrepiece but as a benign, undemanding presence in our exciting lives. Evenings at home were my parents and us children sitting in the living room, with different books. Dinners were my mother scolding me and my sister to keep our books aside and eat first. Summer vacations were sitting under a mango tree, reading The Famous Five. If one found an interesting passage especially the ones with the description of the hightea, one read it out loud to the cousins lounging nearby, each holding their own book in hand. Someone usually went looking for biscuits after that. Winters were snuggling under a quilt, reading about Ruskin Bond’s Rusty. Adulthood brought a wider array of books, more thought provoking, sometimes making one uncomfortable. 1984 by George Orwell made me cry-twice. The Love Story made me laugh first and then cry. BKS Iyengar’s yoga books had my body contorted in impossible shapes. Babasaheb Ambedkar’s Buddha and His Dhamma brought me peace.
Book are my closest friends, they know my innermost
thoughts. They are my teachers, they gently nudge me to see. They may not be perfect, but they
are always there.
I have spent my life surrounded by books- reading them alone or reading them out loud to my parents, siblings and now my children. I would like to continue it. Make it a tradition.
I have spent my life surrounded by books- reading them alone or reading them out loud to my parents, siblings and now my children. I would like to continue it. Make it a tradition.
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