How I started Reading Again After a 10 Year “Break”
A break from taking a break
This piece is a little different from what I usually write as this time I want to share an experience that is personal and even miraculous in some ways to me.
As a child, I considered myself to be a bit of a bookworm. I don’t remember the age at which I began my reading journey, but like most, my first books were the typical fairytales, with their large covers and huge fonts. I vividly remember images of a pink roofed cottage (Hansel and Gretel I believe), and a Wolf wearing a scarf with sparkling white teeth. I also remember, with surprising accuracy, feelings of stress regarding the fate of the “Three Little Pigs”, and also extreme fascination at their engineering marvel. Maybe that’s why I chose to become an Engineer when I grew up. Who knows.
Anyway, by the age of eight I had somehow learned about the existence of that gatekeeper of wonderful, mysterious worlds- Enid Blyton. I communicated to my mother my desire to read her works, and generous and loving as she is, my mother took me to a bookstore nearby and bought me EVERY SINGLE Enid Blyton book the store had. When I say every single book, I mean the ENTIRE collection of Famous Five, Secret Seven, The Naughtiest Girl, Five Find-Outers, St. Clare’s and Malory Towers. I believe the store owner will never forget my mother and the wide-eyed child accompanying her, who were probably his biggest patrons till date. I never fail to mention to anyone who will listen, that the only reason I got into reading at all is my mother.
After that, my life had a standard routine. After returning from school, I would play some game or the other on the lawn outside, and then after a refreshing bath, settle down on my green swivel chair and get lost in the world of hidden treasures and evil policemen(Mr Goon, I remember you ).
A part of the credit also goes to my 3rd Grade Teacher, Mrs Samuel, who routinely held 40 minute reading sessions every week. She read out Roald Dahl stories, and while some of the other children fidgeted, I listened with rapt attention about the adventures of Giant Peaches and of Evil Witches who ate children. As you might have guessed by now, Family Bookstore had been ransacked by the mother-daughter duo yet again, who had left behind in their wake nothing but a page long order for the remaining works of Mr Dahl.
I will not go into the details of our other escapades, but within the next few years, I believe I had read every single Nancy Drew and Sherlock Holmes book that bookstores in Kolkata (we had branched out, you see) possessed. I also learnt that mystery was my favourite genre.
A defining moment in this journey was my most memorable Christmas present till date (from Santa- why must we grow up), which was a travel bag full of Hardy Boys books. As I learnt later, my father and mother had taken a trip down to College Street (the most famous place in Kolkata for all categories of books) and scoured several bookstores to purchase as many of the Franklin W. Dixon authored books as they could, over the span of a day. Even as I write it, I can feel a surge of emotions welling up in me. I love you Mom and Dad.
Before I delve into my Father’s contribution towards my journey, I must give an honorary mention to my mother’s morning walk partner, who lived in the same colony as we did. She had a collection of books on animals and some classics, and had offered to lend them to me. The books belonged to her daughters who had now grown up, and thus every week I would borrow a handful of them and proudly sign my name on the ledger she kept for the same. I took extra care when I handled her books and made sure I returned them in excellent condition.
Back to my father, I do not exaggerate when I say the I have yet to meet someone who reads as much as he does. At our house, we have more books than clothes, with shelves and cupboards teeming with literary work ranging from Robert Ludlum and Frederick Forsyth to Bill Bryson, Carl Sagan and Romila Thapar. Even after a tiring day at work, it is not uncommon for me to see my father curled up in bed with a book, choosing to read rather than watch a soap opera or sleep for a full eight hours. Seeing my parent so invested in books made me feel righteous and noble.
The next stage in my journey began when my parents, sister and I began visiting Crossword (a Megastore for books) regularly. We would enter the store at noon and return home in the evening, with cartons full of books. I had begun reading young adult fiction by now- Twilight (the books are actually very nice) and of course, Harry Potter. I wont delve into the extent of my obsession with the boy wizard’s life, but lets just say a certain someone was caught reading The Goblet of Fire hidden within a large and boring History School Book, one day before their half-yearly examination. This someone learnt a couple of things about themselves that day- that they were a terrible liar and that they were excellent last minute studies( a score of 90+ in that dreadfully boring test). Maybe that’s why they ended up studying last minute for all exams henceforth. They sincerely hope that their mother never reads this writeup.
However, as I transitioned into my late teens, I could feel a change creeping in, affecting my pace and interest in reading. I was no longer reading novels with full focus and was getting distracted by the smallest of things. A brief period of rekindled interest did occur when I discovered Jeffrey Archer, and mythological fiction books like the Palace of Illusions and the Meluha Series, but that was short lived. My participation in extra-curricular activities at school and the stress of seeing peers around me studying for several hours a day for Board Exams had begun affecting me. I could not enjoy reading as I had before and could feel that something was amiss.
But college definitely confirmed what I had been dreading all along. I tried to visit the university library several times and issued books of varying genres, but none of them could hold my attention. I felt like an imposter, as though I had never read a book in my life before. I remember feeling ashamed that over the span of my four years there, I was able to read only a handful of books. Inspite of developing several new hobbies, I could not help but feel a sense of loss.
In 2020 during the quarantine, I had hoped that the that I would be able to return to my favourite hobby, but I was unable to. Don’t get me wrong, I read a lot of newspapers and articles online about subjects that interested me, but was unable to read any book. I had lost hope.
But in 2022 something unexpected happened. My sister and I were scouring through shows on OTTS ended up finding a television series on Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot on one of them. We watched an episode, and boy were we hooked. We watched season after season religiously every night, marvelling at the acting and direction. Meanwhile I could feel myself correlating some of the episodes with the stories I had read as a child. Out of sheer curiosity, one day I opened one of the unread Agatha Christie Novels at home(The Mirror Crack'd from Side to Side) and voila, the magic began. I started to relate the setting of the books with the series and though it took me about a week to complete the book(I used to finish entire novels in a single day), I was shocked at the fact that I had finished it. I had dredged and struggled through it, but I had successfully completed my first book in years. It brought back a sense of faith in myself that I hadn't felt in ages.
I was very nervous about starting a second book. What if I fell back into the same old pattern and did not finish the book? To increase my chances at success, I chose my next book carefully. I went online and after some research, ordered a Facsimile Edition of an Agatha Christie book with the most promising plot. The aesthetic of the first edition coupled with my excitement ensured that I finished this one in three days. There was no more second guessing after that. I ordered more facsimile editions and read them all. I went through my father’s John Grisham collection(law thrillers) at home and read the ones that interested me the most. For my birthday, after ages, I ordered books and even asked my friends and sister to gift me the same. I am in the process of reading them as I type this.
The reason I decided to write about this is because my experience brought out a new level of self-respect in me. My reaction may seem excessive to people who have not experienced a love for printed work, but this experience is not limited to just books. Everyone at some point in their childhood had an activity that they loved, be it making origami, playing a sport, an instrument, or even flying kites. Growing up and losing interest in those hobbies brought with it a sense of loss, which many of us may not have registered yet. A rekindled passion for that activity is a very personal experience as it lets you relive the best moments of your childhood.
I hope that this article will instil a sense of longing for a childhood passion in those who read it. The key is to find an innovative way to reintroduce that activity into your life, no matter your age or your responsibilities and experience the joys of childhood once again.
