No one finds a lover by buying books

I love not reading books more than reading them. I want some books to be around me. To be handled leisurely when time and mood permit. Truth is, reading books is life’s most laborious task. And I am fundamentally lazy. . . . . . . Don’t want to read books? Does reading feel like a burden? Does reading cause you more pain? Don’t read. When it feels good, you’ll read. Or maybe you won’t read at all.

I loved these words from Sandeepan Chattopadhyay. They match perfectly with my own feelings. But one forgets that even doing this, Sandeepan remains Sandeepan! The more books I buy, the less I read.

For any man, finding a girlfriend who’s happy to receive books as gifts is truly a stroke of luck. Why? Whether the beloved reads the books or not, it saves pocket money! Keeping girls charmed and distracted with so little expense is no small joy. Even a single Cadbury costs much more! Books surely cost less than many other gifts.

The other day I went to a bookshop with just such a lucky friend. His girlfriend’s birthday—he was going to give her books. And he did buy them. Two books.

The first: Chinese Cooking Made Easy. I understood that for now it’s not him, but his future in-laws who are the lucky ones. (A wife who cooks well is a wonderful thing! A girl who cooks delicious food can be loved very easily. I know the haters will say, “Then why not marry a good cook instead of a wife!” Let them say whatever they want! People give advice according to their own tastes!)

Let me sing some praises of Shiva here. I’m sharing an observation from Satinath Bhaduri: People become most intimate through food; wherever I’ve seen the bonds of indissoluble family life looking sweetest, I’ve noticed that the wife keeps feeding her husband quite novel dishes regularly.

Mr. Bhaduri, I’ve always envied your generation for precisely such matters. Today’s modern women, skilled in non-cooking, barely set foot in the kitchen except through the housemaids. Or through mothers-in-law. They become Siddika Kabir with great care by watching cooking books or TV shows. That care roams the realm of the head much more than the realm of the heart. Going from kitchen to books is easy enough, but the reverse is just as difficult! Still, while eating that cooking, one can eat with great satisfaction thinking of the beautiful hostess from the TV show. All the mind-boggling beauties teach cooking. That’s why their style attracts me more. I’m fairly certain that beautiful hostess’s own poor husband doesn’t get to taste her cooking as much. At least in that respect, long live the modern educated bride!

I’ve seen friends give such dry thanks when praising their wives’ cooking. The fault seems to be the mother-in-law’s more than the wife’s. Why does she assume that even after marriage, the daughter and son-in-law will continue enjoying mother’s cooking in comfort? No matter how high their educational qualifications, it’s Bengali nature to keep someone outside the door of the heart unless they pass the test of ‘additional qualification’ in at least one more area. At least in my case. Violinist Einstein, footballer Niels Bohr, painter Rabindranath are much dearer to me. Be it music. Literature. Cooking. Or something else. Yes, if the main qualification isn’t there, that ‘additional qualification’ has less value. Because then it’s no longer ‘additional’!

Who in this world is indifferent to what’s above rightful due—free, extra, bonus? I should mention here that not all indifference is genuine. The one who forgets to ask for money back from a debtor—he’s the one who gets the authentic certificate of absent-mindedness. With so many dreams, boys get married, and end up sitting around building Bridges of Sighs!

Now let me return from Shiva’s songs to my friend’s beloved. My friend then bought: Home Beauty Care. Now I understood my friend is supremely lucky—after marriage, his wife’s parlor expenses will be saved too! Ah, what bliss!! Being a fortunate man is truly a great blessing. Needless to say, both these books were chosen by the friend for his friend’s beloved.

I felt envious of my friend’s good fortune. Many girls save their husbands’ money, but how many save their boyfriends’ money?

Going to bookshops, even the blind can see. There’s always the previous resolution that this time will be the last time buying books. No more buying new books without reading the old ones. Yet the eyes don’t turn away, the mind doesn’t listen. (It’s not my fault at all, it’s all the books’ fault.) The man who doesn’t hold hands with his girlfriend even when she’s right in front of him is utterly heartless! I’m not heartless. A little later, the man who can’t suppress in public his desire to kiss gently—he’s downright barbaric! I’m not barbaric either. So I buy, I buy them. Buy whom? These neuter-gendered ancient beloveds, these faithful mute companions—is there any end to their mysteries? Actually, in book-buying and politics, there’s no such thing as the last word.

Generally nobody gives me gifts. So I give them myself. Bookshops call me occasionally—”Sir, new books have arrived.” When new books arrive, they email the book list. Books with good printing, good paper—there’s joy in buying such books. Happiness lies in that very joy!

When I was in school, I’d get books at the start of each year. I remember, father always bought quite a few ‘unnecessary books’ along with school books. The number of books he bought was proportional to my final term results from the previous class. Father had many books in his collection too. This attachment to books I inherited from father.

I remained small for a long time. Small meaning, those who don’t have big money. Money for buying books could always be had by asking mother. Women’s money is like toothpaste in a tube. Even when everything seems finished, something always remains. Somehow money can always be found from women. Mother never said ‘no’ when I asked for book money. Actually, later I felt somewhat ashamed to ask father. I don’t know where that shame originated from. I asked mother more. Mother would give me books at any cost, either taking from father or from her own earnings.

Sometimes mother and I would have reading competitions. Who could read more books! Mother would often let me win. Father would just smile. How sweet the meaning of that smile was, I understand now; I smile too. How effortlessly parents become parents! It’s truly amazing to think about!

Anyway, at the start of each year, bright school children pose for photos in newspapers with new books in hand. Why should I be left out? I never wanted to grow up; I was made to grow up. What’s my fault?! So I always start the year buying books, spend the year buying books, end the year buying books. All my time is book-filled time. There’s no time in the year when I have money in hand but I’m not buying books. It’s impossible for me to survive without buying books.

Many people buy books, the intelligent read books, fools let books be read. Experience says the last task often ends in the dative case. I’m of course even more advanced. My days pass merely in the pretense of reading books. Each year my personal library grows in size as much as my indifference to reading increases proportionally. The rumination of gains and the accounting of losses—thoughts spin in the interaction of these two. Good feelings often triumph over bad feelings. The thought-giver is largely responsible for this.

My year begins buying books, passes looking at books, ends loading the (failed) resolve to read purchased books onto next year’s shoulders. I buy good feelings with money, sell them for regrets. And between these two, my years get stolen away. Love on one shore, unlove on the other. A bridge in between. That bridge never gets crossed. Yet walking on that bridge, looking down at the flowing river below, I say, this is quite good! Living seems to be going well!

P.S. At one time I used to share on Facebook what books I bought. I wanted others to also buy, collect, and read what I read or bought for reading or collecting. I saw people started saying very nasty things about this, finding some kind of sick comfort in hurting me. I don’t share anymore. What’s the need! Why keep an joy that causes pain when shared!

Good thing is, I secretly think of Facebook as the thought-giver, that’s what I call it. It feels good to think of it that way.